


Morte Lumina

by lumineaux



Series: The Light Bearer [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: 2Spooky, An Apocalypse of Metal, Behind Every Bread & Butter You're Fucking With is a Man Who Means Business, Casual Sex, Church of the Black Klok, Everybody Loves an Origin Story, Having Feelings Makes you Gay, I promise it's not Murderface, It's an Ancient Prophecy Charlie Offdensen!, Klokateer Appreciation, Look; I just wanna write a spin-off with blood and dicks and fire., M/M, One-Time "Let's Fuck the Manager" smut, Ride or Die for Dethklok, Romance, The Dead Man, a different variety of satire, ass beatin's, but also smut, but it's fukken cool right?, but otherwise as canon as possible, danger-husbands, dark magick and necronomic spells, head!canon offshoot, hurt!toki, mildly AU, queer!Offdensen, safe-wording out, the first oath of the klokateers is you don't talk about the klokateer oath, the gravitas is totally satire i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumineaux/pseuds/lumineaux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(I only write this because I love the story, so:<br/>This is a role call for all Gears, Queers, + Klokateers!<br/>If you want the <i>real</i> final chapter, you've gotta go to:<br/><a href="http://www.metalocalypsenow.com">METALOCALYPSENOW.COM</a><br/>Join the fight, help bring <b>The Army of the Doomstar</b> to a screen near you!)</p><p> </p><p><i>"We call him the Half Man. Haven't you ever wondered why? Haven't you wondered, who is the other half?"</i><br/> </p><p>Beyond what parts of his life were dictated by managing Dethklok, little is known about Charles Offdensen, past or present, though the past has a way of floating to the surface. With an ancient prophecy unfolding, there is only so much one man, even the Dead Man, can do to keep the truth--and his true nature--buried.</p><p>The Metalocalypse is upon us.</p><p>(Intentionally a little over the top, written in third person but from Offdensen's perspective, so expect to roll your eyes a bit. CFO has a dramatic flare. Chapters will trade off and work chronologically from two different time-frames until the two timelines merge, and then the Prophecy will be revealed...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maison

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not making a penny, don't own it, Brendon Small is a demi-god, blah blah.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 666 ov Batons

There were no dates, only entries separated by a blank page. The edges of the journal were worn soft and the ink produced a smooth gradient of fade, indicating consistently made entries. The handwriting was the same throughout-–neat, stylized, slender letters–-though there were at least three languages in this one alone, and two others in the identical books at the back of his personal safe.

Offdensen had always kept logs of the boys’ activities, for financial reference and legal alibis, but those were digital files and lacked any narrative. They were straight-forward and often boring.

**2 September 2009  
** Mordhaus  
1230 brunch  
1400 rehearsal  
1600 board DethCopter to venue  
1620 emergency landing; wind interference  
1630 resume flight  
1745 arrive at venue  
1900 sound check  
2000 doors  
2100 show  
2300 depart venue  
**3 September 2009**  
0100 arrive at Mordhaus 

There were similar files for the activities of the Klokateers, the business summaries for each day, and modestly calculated time-sheets of his legal work. The band had insisted years ago that his managerial pay be salary, his CFO earnings were of course on a percentage, but his legal fees would remain per hour. They may have been stingy and oblivious to the pervasiveness of their corporate power, but they didn’t fuck with Charles. He earned his keep and they made sure he was paid handsomely for it. When the label had suggested that they keep Offdensen on a joint salary for his multiple roles and throw in a retainer (the figure had been embarrassingly low, considering the band’s massive earnings), Nathan had threatened to throw Cornickelson out of the 30th story window of the label’s conference room. A new contract was quickly drafted and the issue was never questioned beyond that. Offdensen performed three jobs–-at least, only three on the payroll-–and they would not accept anything less than ensuring he was paid for all of them.

The entry after that meeting only took up half a page, and ended with a new, brief line.

_I’ve been fighting it for some time, but it’s clear now that this has become more to me than a job._

Charles had been surprised to find the journal undisturbed when he returned. Nine months later and it was still there on his bed, laid at the down-turned corner of the sheets, the cover lifting slightly over the pen he’d tossed into it as a bookmark. He had been both touched and unsettled to find his things just as he had left them. He stood in the doorway to his bedroom, gripping his briefcase nervously as Pickles leaned against the entryway. He had only had two bags–-the duffel and the briefcase-–but Pickles had insisted he helped and pulled a Klokateer away from renovations to carry the duffel for him. “I mean, ya know, it was a shack! It was hard for us, seein’ you like dat. Though, dood, it was pretty brutal, would have made a great album cover… So, yeah, after de funeral, we had the Klakateers get all de business stuff from you affice an’ we… well, we sealed off the wing. It was yours, didn’t feel right.”

Charles was glad that the smile tugged at the corner of his mouth facing away from Pickles. “Thank you, that’s, ah, very touching.”

Never one to let a tender moment go untarnished, Pickles continued. “It was sad, ya know. No family, no will, really, you jus’ wanted the Employee Parting Package. Everybody there was just all suits-n-ties colleagues an’ shit.” He stepped briefly inside and picked up a small framed photo of Offdensen’s mother, Charles’ face to an eerie exactness, softened into a feminine half smile. “Well, ya know,” he shrugged and placed it back down, turning to leave the room, “don’t say we never did nuttin’ for ya.”

“Of course.” Pickles clapped Offdensen’s shoulder and began heading back down the hallway, out of the wing. The Klokateer was still standing by the duffel he’d placed at the foot of Offdensen’s bed. Charles walked further into the room and raised an eyebrow in question, seeing that the Klokateer was waiting for permission to speak.

“It’s good to have you back, sir.” Even through the voice-modulator in the hood, Offdensen heard a sincerity that made him bite the inside of his cheek. After a brief pause, the other continued, “Welcome home.” With a respectful nod, he then left the room and the wing. Charles heard the heavy doors to his portion of the complex shut with a sharp click of bolts fitting together.

He would deal with his office later, it was too much to think about now. He set his briefcase outside the bedroom door and closed himself in, sliding off his jacket and tossing it over the back of his reading chair. The _Papyri Graecae Magicae_ was still laid face down over the arm of the antique wingback, open to a series of short incantations for deflecting evil. It was pleasure reading for him, but he thought briefly how he wished he had remembered some of those incantations the night he’d been killed. He didn’t need them now, though. He had other incantations, other methods. The Church had shared secrets with him that he still struggled to believe, despite performing the impossible acts, himself.

Toeing off his shoes by the duffel, he looked between the journal on the bed and the archway into the posh, mosaiced bathroom. His shoulders quivered at the thought of being under the temperature-controlled rainfall shower head, but his tired body could wait. He sat down on the mattress, a nostalgic ripple coursing through him. He hadn’t quite thought of this as home before, he hadn’t had much of a concept of 'home' in a very long time, but it certainly felt like it now. Charles laid his hand over the journal, left it there, feeling the leather under his hand for a moment before he picked it up and opened it to the last entry.

_I fear something catastrophic is coming. Intelligence has been unable to confirm, but I know it is more than the Revengencers that threaten Dethklok. My sleep is restless, but the boys have finished the record and are in good spirits. Give thanks for small blessings. I hope we will not need them._

It was strange looking back at how unhinged he had become in the days leading up to the attack. Even after all that had taken place since, he felt calmer, now. Resigned to the state of things, perhaps, but still calmer.

He turned the page and picked up the pen, clicking it a few times before he touched it to paper.

_I have seen the face of Death, of the Void, I have learned ancient rituals and spells and unfurled plans of ungoverned, immoral armies. I do not regret the things that have come to pass, but I am glad that, for now, they have indeed passed, all the same._

_I am home._


	2. A Long Time Ago in a Metal Bar Far, Far away...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I'm telling you all, the answer's in your past..."_

Open his own firm, that’s what he’d do.

No more 9-to-5 tax purgatory and managing finances for a motorcycle gang’s front, a bar that looked like it was suited more for squatters than patrons. Taking another glance around, he realized that both seemed synonymous for the most part. He was familiar with the concept of a dirty _hippie_ , but this was his first genuine encounter with metalheads. Considering that he’d had The Police’s Greatest Hits on repeat in his Volvo for the last week, it was safe to say he didn’t really _get_ it, either. It wasn’t punk, and it wasn’t exactly goth, not that he had a particularly firm grasp of those. Thankfully, balancing the books didn’t require that he got it. He’d arrived there after his regular hours at the accounting firm, still in the same suit and tie he’d worn since six that morning. He got a whiff of his own funk now and again depending on how he turned and there was a coil of razor wire that tightened around the middle of his back if he moved a certain way. Overall, he felt his skin prickling, a little itch here and there, like he needed to tense his whole body just to be able to then relax. As more people filed in and the music over the mediocre PA system got a bit louder, Offdensen supposed there did seem to be a cathartic venting of anger in the raucous music, and, today in particular, he could certainly see the value in that.

His contempt for the current affairs of his life had been on a slow boil since sunrise. Boring job, boring apartment, boring men at the bars, and co-workers at the firm that made him reconsider living among other humans. The Volvo had had a near death experience on the way home from the gym the night before, he’d woken up in the middle of a raunchy dream involving the handsome guy from his yoga class, but had slept through his first alarm and didn’t have time to jerk off before getting ready for work, leaving him in a constant state of teetering between lust and murder. He was looking forward to going home, having a splash of tonic water with a tall glass of gin, and cumming at _least_ twice, maybe even open the kinky drawer. _Just a few more minutes, you’re almost done…_

He was making his last check over the numbers, stacking everything neatly back into their own files, when someone shoved in behind him to get to the bar. He hadn’t even noticed the place had filled up, but he straightened now and realized he would have to slither through leather, spikes, and combat boots to get out of this place. “Hey, dildo!” he looked back at the man that had squeezed in beside him. “Think ya could work somewhere else? What a fucking faggot, with your little My First Desk Job suit and tie, Christ, you must wanna kill yourself three times a day!” Generally, drunken instigation was ignored with little more than an eye roll, but the overkill rant had straightened Charles’ back. One word, in particular, turned his spine to steel instantly, always setting off every alarm.

“Ah, excuse me?” He knew he didn’t look intimidating, short by most standards and his build concealed by his usual work attire, clean cut and glasses, but he channeled most of his frustration--existential, sexual, or otherwise--into kick-boxing and martial arts, dampened into something a little more therapeutic with distance running and yoga, and like with everything else he’d tackled in his life, he was quite skilled.

The metalhead flicked Offdensen’s tie, sneering down at him. “Ya heard me, douchebag, we’re about to have some brutal shit in here, you might want to call it a night, go punch that clock again tomorrow, ya sad fuckin faggOOOAH.” A small perimeter of interest suddenly converged on them, between the sound of the guy’s head being slammed down against the bar and the spew of screams coming from him now, bleeding from his brow, down into his eyes, cursing as he tried to swing at Offdensen, who quickly averted, seized just below the other’s elbow, and pulled him with the momentum of his own punch, sending him stumbling into a group of bikers.

A riot of noise went up, savage enough to alert interest even in a death metal bar. Pickles peeked out from behind the stage left wings, pulling the narrow curtain across half his face, trying to spot what the commotion was about. “Ooh, ooowoooh, Nat’an! Dere’s a fight!” Soon enough, all five of them, plus a couple of the venue’s crew, were practically out on stage watching the fight surge through the back of the club. It didn’t take very long, but it was a hell of a thing to watch, the packed bar cramming back against each other to make room for the two men brawling, or more, one of them getting knocked back to the ground repeatedly while the other easily dispatched him each time he picked himself up off the floor. Once it was clear who had won (because the other guy was getting dragged out back to get dumped in a puddle of garbage water), the venue erupted into a congratulatory roar, then died back down to normal, the anticipation mellowing out, nearly show time. When they finally went out, Nathan put a hand up to his eyes, trying to see beyond the stage lights to the bar.

“Hey! If that guy’s still here, give him a drink on us!” Charles rolled his eyes. That would be the third drink now. He was still a bit out of breath, strung out on adrenaline, and he had decided to stay at the bar partially to hide his throbbing erection. It was alarming, how those two were interchangeable for him at times, sex and violence. He liked them best together. The congratulatory alcohol had him giving a glance around, wondering if maybe he’d kill two birds with one stone tonight, but none of the men here struck his fancy. Oh well, there was always the kinky drawer… For now, he decided to get drunk on someone else's dime, knowing he could walk home if he really had to, and awkwardly listened to death metal. It wasn’t bad, he supposed, but it was different, belligerent, and with the mix of testosterone and booze in his system he kind of liked it. Maybe it was time to finally branched out, musically…

When the band was done, Charles flagged down the owner to hand back the files and exchange some pleasantries, and as he was settling his tab at the bar, mentally mapping out what would be the best route to walk back to his apartment, three different hands clapped at his back and shoulders. “Hey Wallstreet, nice Kung Fu out dere.” Drummer.

“Ja, business guy, you ams like Jean Claude Vans Dams on that dildo. He’s always in here, saying things stupid.” Ah shit, the guitarist was definitely good looking on closer inspection, and a Swede. Swoon.

“Yeah, fuck, man, that was awesome.” Charles looked up at the singer, towering over him even as he was leaning over to take the beers being passed to them from fans further down the bar. Charles was surprised to hear the voice was still rich and relaxed. He’d expected the other’s larynx to feel like it had been put through a wood chipper by now, after the kind of torture he’d done to it just moments ago on stage. There was a sixth beer. Distinctive, feral-looking teeth flashed in a quick grin and the singer handed the extra to Charles. “I’m Nathan, by the way. That’s Pickles, that’s Skwisgaar, Magnus, Murderface… hey! Murderface! It’s that _guy_! Yeah, from before, I know, it’s awesome! Anyway, that’s Murderface--”

“Hey, you got a business card or some’in? I dunno what your gig is, but, we just fired our manager, and ah, you’re a pretty badass dood.”

“That’s ams a greats idea. I likes it.”

“Well, I’m flattered, gentlemen, and actually, I may be able to offer _some_ services to you, but I--”

“Pickles, don’t you think maybe you should have said something about this before?”

“Why? Come on! This guy is perfect, Nat’an, it’s what we need! He looks all business and contracts and shit, but we’ve seen him beat the balls off a guy, that’s fucking metal, dood! He’ll be like our spy!”

“Gentlemen, really, I don’t know whether it’s metal or no--”

“Woah… Pickles, that’s… that’s a really good point.” Nathan let out a slow, rumbling laugh that Charles could feel in his jaw when the other put an arm around his shoulders and clicked the necks of their beer bottles together. “All right, hey! Hey, everybody! We just got a new manager!”

“Boys, honestly, I’d be happy to give you my card but--” He was drowned out by another round of beers being ordered and the chatter of fans around them, effectively stuck there with the large singer keeping him in a friendly vice. He turned when he felt a hand on his wrist, nearly bumping noses with the tall blond guitarist as the other leaned in.

“Oh comes on, business guy.” He had a grin on his bowed mouth as if he was trying to seduce Charles, and the older man wasn’t sure if maybe that's exactly what he was doing. “Be’s honest with yourselfs. You hates your job? Your life? You wants a way outs of that bullshit, you work with us for a while. Just wait, we gonesa get famous, be making enoughs money to drowns in it.” A slender, shapely hand was extended to him with an air of tense drama, like this was a pivotal moment in the storybook of his life. Charles looked at the hand, the callused fingers and the smooth, short nails, then up, to the perfectly symmetrical face, still set very much like seduction. Eyes flicking back down, he watched as he was put his hand into Skwisgaar’s.

“I believe you’ve got yourself a deal, then.” He managed to convince them to let him finally go home only after he’d given them his information and let them call his mobile from the bar’s landline to prove he wasn’t blowing them off. By the time he was waving goodbye to them from the exit, he was very drunk, and definitely walking home, but maybe going to a diner first for a greasy egg and cheese biscuit. Some hashbrowns sounded like heaven right about now, too. He was checking his pockets to see if he needed to get cash before the now official diner run when a voice called after him from the corner of the club’s block.

“Hey, you’re the one that handed Rusty’s ass to ‘im, right?” Offdensen stopped, looked over his shoulder, expecting to say thank you and good night, but the voice belonged to a gorgeous boy with long, slim legs and mussed, shaggy auburn hair, leaning in the doorway of a vacant shop while smoking a cigarette, and Offdensen turned around.

“Ah, yes, that was, ah…” He cleared his throat, trying to ignore how quickly the sight of this young punk had revived his hard-on from earlier. “Charles,” he stated plainly, pointing at himself.

The boy grinned, pointing at himself, as well. “Tyler.” They had drifted to be standing awkwardly about an arms length from one another. Tyler licked his lips, pulling another drag from his cigarette, the glow of the ember flickering in his dark brown eyes and Charles thought shamelessly about those big doe eyes looking up at him from waist-level. “You know, this area is pretty dangerous. I’d feel a lot safer if I had someone to walk home with me...” He looked expectantly at Charles in a way that made it perfectly clear they were going to fuck if he agreed, rolling his tongue across the back of his teeth and letting the smoke billow out slowly from between his lips as he exhaled.

“Well,” Charles turned to stand next to Tyler now, offering his arm. The other smiled and slipped his hand into the crook of Charles' elbow, squeezing it against his side. “Let’s get you home safe, then.”


	3. By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thinks you knows a person...
> 
> _And we return to the present._

This was the fourth “last email” Offdensen had answered, and unlike the last three, when he had sent this one, there wasn’t another waiting for his attention. He let out a quiet, relieved sigh and put the PDA in his briefcase. He’d pick back up once he was settled in his office, or maybe it would turn into another night with the laptop across his thighs and a highball of whiskey on the bedside table, swapping between windows of business presentations and porn. For now, he leaned back and watched the dark forest flick past, knowing once they had passed a particularly massive fir tree with roots gnarled like a fist clutching the earth, Mordhaus was close. He was off in an aimless daydream, letting his mind wander after hours of rigorously keeping it on task, when he was snapped from it, watching the trees outside slow and then stop. He slid forward, leaning over the driver's seat to peer out through the windscreen. A black Jeep was parked across the wide drive, a small team of gun-toting Klokateers establishing a perimeter, now including Offdensen's car. One approached the vehicle, leaning down as Charles lowered the window.

“Sir, there was a report of smoke rising from the woods, scouts have confirmed there is a small band of Revengencers a few hundred yards over that ridge. We’ve just arrived, we’re about to ambush.”

Offdensen nodded, stepping out of the car and pulling the Beretta from the holster at the small of his back. “I’ll come with you.”

“But sir--” The look alone cut the Klokateer off. “Yes, sir. Would you prefer to take lead?”

“No, no, please, carry on. I’m here and armed, I may as well ensure you aren’t outnumbered.” The Klokateer nodded and cut a sharp about-face, gathering his team, laying out a quick plan of action for the attack. The driver joined them as well, pulling an M-16 out of the trunk of the blacked-out Mercedes, the vanity plate leaving no mystery--DK CFO.

They hiked into the woods, fanning out, circling the small encampment of brain-washed fans, hardly recognizable as people now, having gone feral and mad left to die in the treacherous forests surrounding Mordhaus. Offdensen had a finger tucked firmly against the trigger, waiting for permission to fire. When it came, the sharp crack of firearms drowned out all other sounds in the forest, a cacophony of fleeing, frightened birds and wildlife heard as the ringing of gunfire faded. There had been no real fight; more of an execution. All the same, Offdensen stepped down into the small basin clearing of the Revengencer camp, making sure they were dead. “Anyone injured?”

A quiet spatter of “negative”s, and under it, a weak “Injured, sir.”

Offdensen picked out the voice and started towards it. “All right. Where’s your medic?”

The same voice answered again, “Ah… injured, sir.”

Offdensen knelt down next to a young man in a dark green hood, clutching a bullet wound in his arm, the red cross over his forehead denoting him as the team’s EMT. Offdensen took the other’s wrist, making him let go and allow him to see the damage. “It’s not all bad, but it’s best we get it taken care of quickly. Your gear?” 

The medic jutted his chin to indicate a bit further into the woods. "Just over there, I put it down to shoot." Another Klokateer quickly stepped in and got on the other side of the injured medic, retrieving the bag, Offdensen giving out orders for what he would need to treat the wound. He sat the medic down and got to work, taking off his belt and handing his jacket off to his driver. “This isn’t going to be enjoyable, but the more you stay with it, the faster it will be over. Are you ready?”

The initial insertion of the forceps wasn't soul-crushing but it came on fast, sucking the air out of him. Not so bad turned into excruciating and continued to get worse. The pain quickly peeked into a slowed-time kind of clarity. M511, Medic Class, thought about the fact that he was biting down on a four hundred dollar Italian leather belt, had had fifteen year old scotch poured into his bullet wound out of an antique silver flask, and his _boss_ was digging the slug out of him. What did you do when the medic needed a medic? At least he had been the only casualty. He was putting bruises on top of bruises all over 4897’s arm, nearly biting through the belt, but he didn’t close his eyes, peering up through the hood at the stoic line of Offdensen’s mouth, tie gone, re-purposed as a tourniquet around the top of M511’s bicep. Offdensen’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a single blossom of M511’s blood having made its slow crawl down to stain the perfectly starched cotton. “Remember to breathe,” Offdensen offered in an even, calm voice, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he leaned in, gripping M511’s shoulder for leverage as he drove the forceps deeper. The breath the medic had been holding escaped in a scream. He bit down on its tail, groaning until he could feel the blood rushing to his face. As the threshold of pain came screaming at him all high-beams, he felt the tension leave him and a new cleansing breath rush into his lungs. He heard the loud clank of metal on metal as Offdensen dropped the round into a small steel dish, quickly packing the wound with gauze and bandaging the Klokateer up.

Slumping back onto his uninjured arm, finally releasing 4897, M511 found himself both panting and softly laughing as he let Offdensen finish dressing his wound, the endorphins and adrenaline starting to make him feel like he'd just had the best orgasm of his life. “You’ve done this before?”

The glimmer of a smile twitched at Offdensen’s mouth. “Past life.”

*****.

The Tribunal's mixed conversation tapered off as Senator Stampingston made his way to the front, the wall of screens behind him fading from the Crest of the Tribunal, to the photo of a young man in large, dark sunglasses boarding a train.

“Gentlemen, we’ve recently received a piece of intelligence that could completely change our course of action. To help get us up to speed, please welcome our Dutch Murder expert, Dr. Tobias Ndoko ibn Knodo. Dr. Ndoko ibn Knodo?”

“Thank you, Senator.  
Gentleman, this is the last known photograph of Foster Johann Ovdenzen, taken in January of 1985. Son of Johann Charles Ovdenzen, the head of a globally infamous private security firm, young Foster was a brilliant, highly-successful child, excelling in academics, fencing, viola, and Tae Kwon Do. He was accepted into the business program at the University of Amsterdam at only fifteen, having scored astronomically high on the entrance exams. While no official score was ever taken, his IQ was suspected to have been at least one hundred and fifty before he was old enough to legally drive.  
Despite his excellence, tragedy haunted the young man. Set to become his father’s business partner--with whom he had become very close following the death of his mother, Karina Ovdenzen, in a freak bumper cars accident when young Foster was only twelve years old--just after he had turned eighteen, Ovdenzen’s father Johann was murdered by the bereaved wife of one of his late clients. The client, a huge-profile pornography director, was killed by a rabid fan while his body guard was on duty. The body guard was also killed in the explosion.  
Sole heir of both the company and family, Foster Ovdenzen liquidated the entire estate, wiring the fortune into multiple offshore accounts, and disappeared only two days after the brutal bludgeoning of the woman who had killed his father, Lova Sinclaire, who was out on a three million dollar bail, paid anonymously.  
After decades of empty leads and silence from Ovdenzen, the Danish authorities had let the case go cold, but recent intelligence gathered during a tax audit of Dethklok’s corporate offices seems to have all but confirmed that Foster Johann Ovdenzen is now better known as Charles Foster Offdensen, manager, lawyer, and chief financial officer of the Dethklok empire.”

“Gentlemen, I fear this is worse than we thought. Understanding now that the general of Dethklok’s private army is the son of a security expert? With their popularity steadily increasing, it may not be unfathomable to think that these… _Klokateers_ … may become a formidable militia, perhaps sooner rather than later.”

“We should place some of our own among their ranks, gather intelligence and create an opportunity to take out Offdensen once and for all, if the need arises.”

“Yeeesssss, but for now, we must obserrrrrve...”

*****.

It’s time for your Dethklok Minute, and today’s a little bit different;  
Top story of the hour--Dethklok manager-lawyer-CFO, Charles Offdensen,  
is under investigation by the Danish police on suspicion of murder!  
Recent leaks from the Mordhaus tax audit show evidence that Offdensen  
_may_ actually be heir of a security and defense fortune, Foster Ovdenzen,  
reported missing only two days after the brutal murder of his father’s killer.  
Google it!  
When asked about their thoughts on the accusations, the band had this to offer:  
“I dunno what you want from us… we have no reason to believe he did it, but if he _did_ do it, well…  
you know where this is going, that would be pretty *riffing* brutal.”  
“Yeah, I’d buy ‘im… like a framed replica of the murder weapon or some’n’, that’s bad _ass_.”  
No word yet from Offdensen, himself, on the matter, guess we’ll have to wait and see.  
Til next time, that’s the Dethklok Minute!

*****.

“I juscht don’t get it, I mean aren’t there schtatutesch of limitation on thesche kindsch of thingsch? Not that I think he did it, I’m juscht schaying…”

“I _hopes_ he dids it.”

“I’m gonna Googles da crime scenes pictures!”

“Look, I kinda hope he did it, too, but let’s not make a big deal out of it. I mean, you know how Charles can get a little dramatic some--...times.”

Where usually Charles was already sat at the head of the table waiting for them, there was only a laptop and a stack of five file folders. The fireplace on the western wall was crackling, a healthy blaze going. The laptop was open with a video waiting on pause, Offdensen’s stern face temporarily frozen.

“Ah… _oh_ -kay…” The five of them gathered around the laptop, Pickles reaching out to tap the spacebar.

“Boys, I’m sorry I couldn’t make our meeting today, but as I’m certain you’ve now heard, my personal life has unfortunately become very complicated at the moment. Now I have no plans of quitting or taking any kind of sabbatical, but I’m afraid I will be working more over email and phone calls for the next few weeks. Stick to your rehearsal schedule and work on those demos, I’ll try to come by on Friday to check in on you.

Now, in regards to what’s going on… I want to apologize to you for never telling you. We’ve worked together for, ah, quite a long while now, and I think you deserved the truth before it came out like this. If this affects how you feel about me professionally, in regards to my employment, though, ah, I would be, ah, _very_ upset, I would of course understand such a decision.

I’ve made copies for each of you. In these files, you’ll learn everything you need to know. You’ll know who I really am. The man you met, the tax accountant? I had tried to become that person, I thought that I had wanted to live a normal life, but, well life’s funny sometimes, isn’t it? Working with you boys showed me my true self, and now you’ll understand the whole story, as well. And, ah, those are the only remaining copies, so when you’re finished if you could, ah… burn them.

Call if you need anything, I’ve left Ten-Eighty-Four in charge of morale, be nice to him this time, please?

Boys, this band became so much bigger, so much more, and I’m sorry for that because I know sometimes it’s just too much for a person, and I haven’t always gone out of my way to help you realize the scale of your fame, of your influence. I hope I can still have your trust after you’ve finally learned the truth.”

The video stopped and the laptop switched to a screensaver of Facebones, drifting across the screen and gently bouncing off as it hit the edges. The five of them silently took a folder and then took their seats. Now and again one of them would ask for clarification from the others, but little broke the silence as they read through the entire file. There were personal letters in it, telephoto lens shots of a young Charles--...Foster? Offdenzen, leaving a large, modern home in the middle of the night, a summary of the fingerprint match between a print pulled from the murder weapon--a sixteenth century brass candelabra with a heavy, claw-footed base--and a partial print of Offdensen’s, lifted from the door handle of a taxi by a private investigator. There were crime scene photos, of Johann Ovdenzen’s murder as well as Lova Sinclaire’s, and a Xeroxed newspaper clipping of an article in Danish that Skwisgaar was able to loosely translate, announcing Foster Ovdenzen’s participation in the upcoming European Tae Kwon Do Junior Championships, one of the youngest competitors that year at only fourteen.

When the file was exhausted, they all sat back, helpless to say anything constructive. After a long stretch of speechlessness, Skwisgaar finally let out a disgusted scoff. “He’s lieds to us this whole times… thats bastard!" Murderface had begun solemnly collecting the files, carrying them over to the fire and tossing them in one by one.

Skwisgaar shook his head, his face still wearing a mask of shock. "He ams _Dutch?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why _yes_ , I'm having too much fun with this.


	4. All Good Nay-Sayers Fall in Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief chapter from the past, soundly finished but not forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more character development than plot, and though not outrageously smutty or graphic, well, it *is* Skwisgaar/Offdensen. If that's not your cup of tea, you're pretty safe to skip it without missing much in the long haul. This will (knock on wood) be the only smut involving another main character and will therefore be the only smut warning. Assume all subsequent chapters to include sexual undertones, overtones, and the occasional big ol' raw-doggin'-it cockaroonie _going in(to other men, exclusively)_.

Charles had been managing Dethklok for three months or so and they were learning everything as they went. He had a poker face that was uncrackable and he was quick on his feet. There had been a few times trying to negotiate a booking that Charles hadn’t had a clue what standard practice was or how much to push to get the band a little more money off the front of house, but he had always figured out a way to make the promoters acquiesce. He had tried not to become too personally involved with any of them, but as loud, crass, and polar opposite from him as they were, they were also very fond of Charles and they’d begun to grow on him. What usually started out as business meetings to get them focused on what type of image or message they wanted to present, how to market that message and promote their shows, and some gentle invasiveness about their personal spending habits (for a bunch of broke bachelors, they could tear through cash, usually dropping it on booze, junk food, and party drugs), at some point in the meeting, one of their attention spans would wane and Charles found himself hanging out with them nearly as often as working. They were growing on him, for certain.

Charles did enjoy his privacy, though. They had only gotten together either in the practice space they rented or at the venues where they played. None of them had been in his apartment yet, though when he had helped them get some gear home after a show and saw the condition of the tiny place the five of them shared, he did at least give Nathan his address in case of emergencies. His hesitance to give them an open invitation wasn’t for lack of trust, but he liked having that boundary. He was considering how hard he wanted to put his foot down on the subject as he stepped out of the Volvo, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder and looking at the long, slim figure folded up on the stoop of his apartment building, a hoodie pulled around him as a blanket. It was still only a little past six in the morning, but even on his days off, Charles liked to start early.

Sighing, he leaned down and shook the other by his shoulder. “Skwisgaar.” A small groan. He shook him again. “Skwisgaar, wake up. You can’t sleep out here, the cops will run you off.” He’d left for the gym around 4:30, he wondered how long after that the other had arrived, or if he’d tried to buzz the apartment.

Bleary blue eyes cracked open, peering up at him, taking a moment to recognize the other. The most dressed down they had seen Charles was business casual, and he looked markedly different in sneakers and a pair of sweats, a tight grey t-shirt pulled across his chest, notably well-formed. No glasses, either, and while his hair was slicked back like usual, it was with sweat rather than product, mussed. Skwisgaar rubbed his eyes, the hoodie falling from around his shoulders, pooling in his lap. “Sorry, sorry,” and then in Swedish, “ _didn’t know where else to go_.” It took Charles a moment, but he got the gist of it, offering the other a hand up.

“Come on, get inside.” Even in only three months, he’d found that Skwisgaar had a very sensitive fight-or-flight response, and it rarely ended in fight. Something must have happened. He pulled the young man to his feet and let them both into the building, heading up to the third floor and down the hall to his apartment. Skwisgaar followed him in and tugged off his boots the moment he took a look around and saw how clean and tidy the place was. He felt like a dirty drifter standing in such a sleek, well-decorated place. Understated, sure, and a little small, but everything was tasteful, if not a bit dry. There didn’t seem to be much of a personal touch, left out in favor of art and a full wall of books. Charles dropped his gym bag just inside the door to the small utility room with the washer and dryer, pulling open the fridge and grabbing two bottles of water, handing one to Skwisgaar and gesturing to one of the stools at the kitchen's bar, not even asking if the other was hungry before he went about getting things together to make them both a Spanish omelette. “You, ah, wanna talk about what happened?”

Skwisgaar let out a long, loud sigh, slumping on the stool, his chin rested on both fists. “Magnus. Agains.” The two shared a matchbox of a bedroom, sleeping on blanket palettes on either side of the tiny space. There was already tension between them, both a little too headstrong and proud to meld, but having to share such a small place and with mounting anxiety regarding Skwisgaar’s work visa, Charles had been anticipating some sort of incident for the last couple of weeks. “He does its on purpose, I knows he does.” ‘It’ was general mean-hearted fuckery. Magnus was a prolific songwriter and an adequate guitarist, but he didn’t seem to be much of a band member. Charles had seen that Magnus was the black sheep by the end of their first meeting. The other four had a bizarre love-hate bond, but Magnus was all self-righteous lone wolf and the more they were getting gigs and attending the subsequent after-parties, the more Magnus had become a thorn in everyone’s side.

Charles gave a small frown, whisking together eggs and seasonings as the pan heated over the gas flame. “I’m sorry, Skwisgaar, I can see there’s a wedge between you two. No cilantro, correct?”

“Rights.” Skwisgaar leaned his head forward, spearing both hands into his tangled blond hair. “Askings me if I gots a jobs flipping boirgors… he knows I fuckin’ hates it! But if I don’t find somewheres that wills hire me…” Charles sneaked a look at the worry that contorted Skwisgaar’s face. “I don’t wanna goes backs to Sweden.”

The sizzle of egg hitting hot steel filled the lull for a while. “You’ve got until November?”

“Ja.”

“If you’re still looking for something to maintain your visa by October, I’ll figure it out, even if it’s just on paper to buy you some time.”

There was a long silence. Charles finally peeked over his shoulder, doing a double-take and turning around fully. Skwisgaar had straightened up and the look on his face was one of relief and deep gratitude. Finally, he wet his lips and gave a tight nod. “Thanks you.”

Charles offered him a half smile, turning back to flip the omelettes. “I wouldn’t be a very good manager if I let the lead guitarist get deported.”

Charles slid a plate over to Skwisgaar and talk died down as they ate. “So I’m ons the couch?”

Charles took their empty plates, rinsing them off before putting them in the dishwasher and starting to clean up the skillet and mixing bowl. “Actually, I was just, ah, going to relax this afternoon, probably read most of the day. If you don’t mind waiting for me to take a shower, you can have the bed.”

That’s when he knew he had made a mistake. Skwisgaar had come to help him clean up the small mess from breakfast and was now grinning at him in the same way he had a month ago after one of their biggest selling shows yet. They’d both been drinking, Skwisgaar rather significantly, and to Charles’ utter shock, the Swede had begun aggressively hitting on him. He knew Skwisgaar was promiscuous, but he had never suspected him to be even a degree off of heterosexual. He had voiced this, Skwisgaar explaining he wasn’t gay, or bisexual for that matter. He had always had a fascination, though, after so many women, to at least satisfy his curiosity with one man, and that he trusted Charles to not fuck him over. “You knows…” the Swede’s voice, now dropped down to a smooth, husky rumble, “I, uh, needs a showers, too.” He moved closer to Charles, bumping the dishwasher closed with his hip. “And hey, I’m nots drunk this time.”

That had been Charles’ winning parry after the last time, citing that Skwisgaar’s drunkenness made him hesitant to do anything they might regret. He hadn’t thought that the issue would ever surface again. Caught off guard, he found himself now pressed back against the fridge, one long-fingered hand against the stainless steel on either side of him. Shit… he knew he could get out of this if Skwisgaar got pushy, but it usually involved a broken nose, and he didn’t think that would be very good for business. Though fucking the guitarist didn’t seem like such a great move, either. He was hardly making any money from them--he had drawn up a short-term contract for them and had set his percentage low, knowing they needed the money more than he did--but he did enjoy the work, and part of him honestly thought they could make it big. He still didn’t know elbows from assholes about metal, but the people who did that came to their shows were growing more and more frenzied and numerous. “Skwisgaar, I… I work for you, you know that, right? That as your manager, that makes you my employer?”

Skwisgaar pressed closer and Charles flattened himself back against the refrigerator, cursing his libido as he felt warmth begin to pool in his lower abdomen and then his groin. “Oh, you likes that? Does that turn you on, that I’ms your boss?”

Charles rolled his eyes, relaxing slightly and then shivering as the blond slid a knee between his thighs. “N-no, I mean this is unprofessional and I don’t want to compromise working with Dethklok.”

Skwisgaar backed off slightly, one hand dropping to his side, but the other moved down to cup against Charles’ throat. Fuck. The weak spot. “No ones would have to knows, just yous…” a thumb trailing along his jaw, “and mes…” Charles’ eyelids floated shut as Skwisgaar leaned in again, pressing against his chest and breathing against his ear. Shit shit shit… he was getting hard. In all truth, it wasn’t even like he didn’t want to. Skwisgaar was, after all, a Scandinavian Adonis.

Charles fought giving into the warm tingling sensation radiating down from his ear to his groin and was doing a piss-poor job of it, rock hard by the time Skwisgaar was grinding against him, nibbling as his jaw. “This will only happen once.”

Skwisgaar pulled back, a little confused, then realization struck. “Ah! Yeah, yeah, of course. Likes I said, I just… you know, wants to tries it. Even the odds, ja?”

“I’m serious, though. If this happens, _if_ I _let_ this happen, it is the _only_ time it will happen, and we never talk about it again.” He had straightened up, trying to put his stern face back on.

Skwisgaar laughed softly, nodding. “Ja, OK, deals.” Biting his lip, he took a step back, giving Offdensen more space. “Yous… wants to, right? I don’t wants to pressures you.” It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe the professional conflict of interests wasn’t the only reason the other had turned him down.

Charles rolled his eyes, gesturing down to his sweats tented out at the crouch. “Does it look like I’m not interested?”

Another prideful grin from the Swede. “Goods point.”

Taking Skwisgaar by the wrist, Charles led him back through the apartment to his bedroom, the bright white bathroom only accessible through it. The bed was large and already made, the whole room a muted green and grey motif that was earthy and soothing. He let go of Skwisgaar’s wrist and went into the bathroom, digging through a drawer and finding one of the spare toothbrushes he kept for one-night stands that stayed til morning. He handed it to Skwisgaar without a word--it should have been obvious after a night of drinking and sleeping on the stoop that he’d appreciate if the other would brush his teeth first--and started laying things out on the bedside table while the blond went about doing so. Lube, condoms, a few toys… if this was really just about satisfying curiosities, he might as well give him all the options to pick from.

Once it was laid out, he took a deep breath to steel himself and went into the bathroom, tugging off his shirt. Swisgaar was tapping the toothbrush against the sink before putting it in the cup under the medicine cabinet. He turned and raked his eyes down Charles’ torso. Who knew there was such a solid frame under those suits? Not bulky, not too cut, but undoubtedly strong; there was no guessing that he took very good care of himself. “Better?” he asked, pointing to his mouth and giving a cheesy grin.

Charles rolled his eyes and stepped in closer, resting his hands on Skwisgaar’s shoulders. “Better.” The Swede leaned in, his hands sliding around to the small of Offdensen’s back. Briefly he realized how awkward this was, but then his eyes went back to the lean throat and flat stomach… even the soft dusting of hair down his torso was sexy. Hell, _maybe_ he was bi… but if he was, fuck it, so be it. A blow job by any other gender was just as hot. “How’s you feels about… kissings?” He asked out of courtesy more than anything else, nuzzling his nose to Charles’ and pulling the other close, using his height to his advantage to gain a little dominance where they had a gap in build.

Charles shivered, letting go of all the things in his head that screamed at him “ _this is a shitty idea!_ ”. His dick was louder. His dick was very convincing that this was just fine. “I, ah, don’t mind. I, ah… prefer it.”

Skwisgaar sighed out a small laugh against his cheek. “Mes, too.” Charles internally kicked himself for the small moan that left him as the other pressed his lips over his own. He gave in for a moment, letting himself be kissed, before he rose up on his toes and snarled one hand in the long corn-silk hair, opening his mouth and kissing Skwisgaar back with an edge of roughness. Just as Skwisgaar had begun to give in, Charles pulled away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pushed past Skwisgaar to start the shower. Letting the water run, Charles slipped out of his sweats at a purposeful, leisurely pace. He knew he was a surprise to see naked for the first time and he’d grown a bit smug of the fact. Long legs, just the right mix of compact frame and muscle tone hard-won from years of martial arts and yoga, and for whatever reason, lovers seemed to fawn over the scars. They dotted his pale skin in pink puckered constellations, most from a bad car accident as a child (a good half-truth to stop at whenever he was asked), but others were from darker, more nefarious things which he no longer talked about. The worst one carved a dark pink crescent from his collar bone, over his left shoulder, and ended nearly at his spine. An inch or two more and he would have been paralyzed from the chest down. His first real lesson in swordsmanship. Apart from the scars, however, his skin was a perfect, smooth buttermilk, one of the many traits he had inherited from his mother. (Others included his eyes, chin, petite frame, and a talent for shutting off emotions in times of great stress, functioning with a determined rationality that had earned them the surprisingly loving nickname from his father, _the Vulcans_.)

Skwisgaar’s callused fingertips grazed the tail of the scar now, craning over Charles and nibbling at his shoulder while he went about unbuckling his belt and jeans. The bathroom began to fill with steam as he undressed and Charles stepped into the shower, extending a beckoning hand as the water beat against his back. “I suppose I should ask; you’ll want to… top?”

Skwisgaar gave him an odd look. “You’re nots a bottom?” He felt a little foolish making assumptions, but despite the ass-kicking that had gotten Offdensen on board with them, the man had a way of seeming harmless, and while stern, was consistent with letting them ultimately call the shots. Looking at him now, exposed and peppered with battle scars, he wondered briefly if _he_ was the one getting fucked tonight. Charles saw the uncertainty and laughed. “It’s all right, I didn’t assume you’d want to try anything too… intimate. Typically, yes, I top, but I don’t mind.”

Skwisgaar considered this a moment and then dropped the worry to the floor along with the t-shirt he’d still been holding. The devilish, sex-smothered grin returned to his mouth. “We’ll calls it a maybe and sees hows it goes?”

Charles let out a short chuckle and offered a nod. Grabbing the younger man by the arm, he tugged him into the shower, sliding the glass door shut with a hiss, and then _click_.

*****.

Charles was worn out, for certain, but it was a similar sensation to that after a hard workout. His joints ached and his skin still had a tingle like it was not yet free of the excess electrons or synapse stimuli or whatever the fuck had been generated during the hour he’d spent being fucked and sucked, sucking and fucking, and generally letting himself go for a while. He had assumed Skwisgaar was the type that got by on his good looks and could afford not to put much effort into sex, but the abandon and intimacy had shocked him. He had liked that from the start about the guitarist: he didn’t half-ass anything if he really enjoyed it. And Charles had enjoyed it, too. Fun, but final. In his top ten, even, but still a one-time thing.

He’d been relieved when Skwisgaar had been the one to bookend their agreement from before.

After the Swede’s curiosity and lust had been satisfied, Charles and left him to get some sleep while he’d spent his afternoon smoking cloves out of an open window, curled up in his reading chair and temporarily evacuating from the real world into two novellas and the last half of a novel he had put down a few months before. The sound of Skwisgaar coming into the room pulled him out of a tense conversation between a waitress and a dangerous stranger. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and closed the book around his finger, looking up as Skwisgaar padded barefoot across the hardwood, carrying his boots and sitting down on the couch across from Offdensen to put them on. “Sleep well?”

“Ja, actually, really well. Hasn’ts hads a reals bed in a while.” He tugged on his boots to fill the silence, and then leaned forward, elbows on knees, and something shifted in his face that made Charles realize he was ready to say something he wouldn’t repeat. “I’s, ah, I mights get drunk and forget, so, just remind me if I do, but I’m good with that, that this is all this is. And… thanks? Yeah… thanks, it was good.” Charles’ eyes darted to the faint suck-mark peeking out from the edge of Skwisgaar’s t-shirt. Before he could say anything, the other continued. “We’re just metalheads, we play music and drinks and fuck around a lot, but… you’re good for us. Really good for us and I don’t want to fucks that up, cuz… cuz I don’t know whats the fucks I do other thans play guitars. Nothing I’d actually want to do, anyway.”

Charles chose his words very carefully, keeping a calm demeanor despite the fact that he was still very aware of what Skwisgaar felt like with his legs wrapped around his waist, either way you read it. He could tell this was not a kind of honesty the other shared often. “I’m glad you feel that way. I, ah, I enjoy working with you boys, it’s, ah... fun. And I might not be in the loop with the whole… 'brutal' thing… but you’re good, I know that. You really are.”

Skwisgaar nodded, the flattery not fazing him, easily cast off with a little nod of thanks. “Ja, I knows that, but you’ve already got so many more people to _hear_ that we’re good than we've managed for the last year. We weren’t doing that. We don’t know that kind of stuff, and it am'n'ts shit we wants to do. That’s why we needs you, and… well like I said. I don’t want to fuck that up.” Another pause. “I really thinks we can make it big, you know? I thinks we really can does it.”

Charles put his book down on the window sill and shifted, leaning in to catch Skwisgaar’s attention more fully. “You boys play the music, I’ll take care of the rest. At the end of the day, it’s your band, you all make any final decisions, but if you trust me and you’re willing to work your fucking asses off, I can do this for you.”

A car’s engine whined down to idle at the light just under Offdensen’s open window. When it drove off again, the moment broke and Skwisgaar stood up, looking refreshed and more energetic than Charles had seen him since the post-show-high in which they had met. He extended a long hand and Offdensen rose, taking it. “Sos I sees you at the gig Thursday nights?”

Charles briefly squeezed the fingers that he knew could make millions before dropping Skwisgaar’s hand. “Of course. I’ll be there early and get everything ready, you guys just bring your A game.” They were walking together to the door, Swkisgaar now in the hall and Charles in the foyer.

Skwisgaar regarded him for one last moment, chancing to lean in and quickly, chastely peck Offdensen’s cheek. “Goods,” he quipped with a wink, making his way to the stairwell, “we’s don’t pays you for nothing!”


	5. II I V III VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things that make life worth living are often, almost always, the very same worth dying for.

It really didn’t surprise him anymore, how quickly such a large scandal could be squelched, how much money really could buy. He had never been anything less than an obscenely wealthy man, but he had also learned how to spend that wealth efficiently. It’s not like you can take it with you.

It had been at Four-Fifty’s suggestion that he had allowed himself to be detained and questioned by Interpol, causing the focus to be shifted away from Mordhaus long enough to give Penta Squad time to arrange all the necessary fabrications. Hire actors, create documents and digital histories, erase some that he had missed as a younger, less experienced man… a bunch of paperwork and red tape, as usual.

Four days went by very intense and very fast. It was only when there was some serious discussion about having him extradited to Denmark did Offdensen finally pull his reserve ripcord, relieved that he had not done so a moment too soon. Everything was ready; a nice, clean, legally sound bow to wrap it all up and the whole thing was over. He had begun to have doubts that he had left too many loose ends, but graciously, there had been nothing to tie his two lives together.

As was expected, he made a brief statement immediately following his release. For most of the Klokateers, and all of the DethSoldiers, it was the most compelling 30 seconds of the Front so far.

“While it does seem clear that Mr. Ovdenzen _is_ guilty of these crimes, the preposterous coincidence in all of this is that I am in fact _not_ this man. I hesitate to get too personal, but, I was born and raised in the suburbs of Cincinnati, unfortunately nowhere near, ah, Amsterdam...

\--the crowd chuckled.

I graduated with a Master’s in business from the University of Chicago in 1993 at the age of 27, and right now I’m going to go home, rest, and spend some time with my parents, who are thankfully both very much alive.”

The bags under his eyes were darker and deeper than usual, his shirt’s collar sweat-stained and rumpled. He had been angry about it at first, watching the press converge at the front of the FBI office he had been detained at and stewing vainly that they would get to see him like this, after he had been so careful with the consistent and minimal image he had always presented to the public, it was one of the core tenets of how he ran this whole fucking thing!... But... he realized it made him appear more human, more convincing. He’d had his blazer and tie draped over his arm, his hair falling, oily, down over his brow, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his watch only barely covering the bruises and one angry red gash left by the handcuffs.

When he had turned and stepped over to the older couple, sent to pose as Mr. and Mrs. Offdensen, a happily married but horribly uninteresting couple of distant Danish and Dutch descent, he serendipitously relaxed into a soft smile that made the role of relieved and loving son easy to play on their way to the waiting limousine; the actress looked nothing like her.

*****.

Four-Fifty was one of the very best, one of the originals. She took no shit from anyone, even Offdensen. “Why haven’t you seen him yet?”

“Who?” The moment the question was out, he realized who she had meant. He hadn’t been paying attention, his mind off in the book, needing the escape badly. He had only stayed in Baltimore for a couple days, long enough to let the initial gossip worship wear itself out. He had flown under the radar for years. There were now five ways the press could misspell his name, and he had never made any effort, or cared, to correct a single one. He had once obliged to a brief phone interview with Fresh Air to discuss his role in Dethklok’s success, but even Terry Gross had Tweeted: _with special guest Charles Ofdenson._

He preferred it that way.

Four-Fifty took the damn book _away_ from him, bringing him fully back into the real world. She didn’t meddle in his personal life more than she felt was absolutely necessary, those were the conditions of the thing they didn’t call a friendship, and she felt this to be necessary. “Two-one-five-three-seven. He’s kept that flame burning, you know…”

Charles wrung his hands in his lap, letting out a sigh through his nose. After all the relief he’d felt properly burying his past again, even _this_ news only made him feel a little tired, though calm. “I didn’t know if he was still alive. I wasn’t ready to know if he’d been killed while I was gone.”

He always knew when she was smiling, hood or not. “So you _do_ feel the same way…”

Playing dumb, not missing how hard his heart had slammed in his chest, Charles tilted his head, turning slightly towards her. “What do you mean?”

“Oh please… I don’t want to tell his business, but… Number One, he was **_devastated_**. It was a time of mourning for all of us, everyone lost a friend or a teammate, our barracks were hit the worst by the fires, dozens died in their beds. But even after we’d begun to rebuild and things were getting back to normal, he just never seemed the same. If you care for him, you should see him.”

A silence filled only with the soft tapping of Charles clicking his teeth together, thinking very, very hard. Four-Fifty could hear the gears turning. “I haven’t noticed him around, he’s usually working with the tech crew. Has his assignment changed?”

A hooded nod. “Mm, he was injured in the attack, left him with a bum--though not lame--knee, and it’s not on record, I filed it as resulting from the injury, but I pulled him off duty for a psych eval. I had him switched over to groundskeeping, he’s seemed a little better there, but he’s still on mandatory leave from the Squad.”

Charles turned his face away, staring out at the world rushing past the car. “Groundskeeping... his mother gardened, I’m sure it brings back fond memories.”

“You are like some evil sorceress turned a Bronte novel into a person, you know that?”

Charles snapped his head back to glare at her, but it faded as he felt a gloved hand squeeze his fingers. He flicked his eyes up to make sure the tinted partition was closed. He had his favorites among the Klokateers, and--before 21537--a revolving door of willing bed partners from their ranks, but for the purpose of authority and professionalism, he kept those relationships hidden from the staff as a whole. “Go see him,” she urged gently. “I think it would be good for _both_ of you.”

*****.

He didn’t actually recall how it had started, though it was definitely Four-Fifty’s idea, and she had undoubtedly pestered and needled at him to get him to accept. He _did_ remember drawing up the waivers, for both legal and personal reasons. He could not think his power and closeness with Dethklok might be the real reason any of them would share his company, and contracts were binding. He liked that about them. Four-Fifty had assured him that wouldn’t be a problem, but enforced his rules, all the same.

He let her pick them, she knew his type, and she was the one to give them all the information they would need, all the disclosures about what was and wasn’t acceptable or could be expected, and had them tested for STDs before sending them to Charles. The first few times had been awkward and he while he rarely felt old--despite the fact that his taste in men had never seemed to age with him--but he certainly felt like a _dirty_ old man. After the first few, though, he began to realize Four-Fifty was right; it was amazing what a hood could hide. There were plenty of handsome young queer men among the Klokateers, and their attraction to him was not one of misguided hero worship or celebrity by-proxy boners, but genuine interest and respect. Some liked his looks, others his demeanor, and a sparse few were very forward in their opinion that after all he had done, not only for Dethklok, but for the Klokateers, they would gladly share a night’s pleasure with him, no questions asked.

Not all of them were interested in his more dangerous desires, though there were also some that could take more than even _he_ felt comfortable giving, but there was never much grey area. They were there to submit or they weren’t, and he was fine if they weren’t, it was enjoyable all the same. While it was loveless and he rarely saw any of them more than once or twice, it was a good arrangement and it served its purpose, primarily of giving him some time, twice a week, to set aside the often _immense_ weight of the job.

Until 21537.

_I didn’t recognize him, and somehow that didn’t make me suspicious. I was impressed. Overall, he has been one of the most enjoyable of these little appointments and I know I want to see him at least once or twice more._

Charles was used to some of the Klokateers being reluctant to remove their hoods, but 21537 had been willing to try, needing a little coaxing. Charles had suggested baby steps, having him pull his hair down from under the hood, then asking if he’d feel comfortable lifting it enough to get at his mouth. He had no rules against kissing, he didn’t think it was nearly as enjoyable without it, but he had never been kissed the way this man kissed him. There was an innocence somewhere in it, a gentleness that was emboldened by raw passion. He would later, and quickly, learn that 21537 was either hot or cold; quiet and hardworking one moment and bashing someone’s skull in with a brick the next. In bed, it had proved to make for an epic experience.

_I had forgotten what that felt like, the butterflies in the stomach. And then I saw the star stitched into the edge of his hood. I felt a bit rude, and I told him so, that I didn’t realize he was Penta Squad, asked if he was new. I try to ensure I meet all of the new recruits, though I trust Ten-Fifteen’s judgment unquestioningly._

_He said, and it knocked me on my heels and then butterflies, he said, “That was my main qualification for the promotion, Sire. I fly quite well under the radar.”_

_That was the first thing I’d heard him say without the modulator. A soft, tenor voice, with a rural French accent that is not thick, but does not go unnoticed. Then he said he had learned from the best, and I don’t take compliments well, so I shoved him to the floor and made him suck me off. Overall, it was an interesting evening, but I don’t feel it’s right yet to dwell on it much more._

_Though, so badly, I want to._

And once the hood was completely off, it took Charles quite a while to stop being dumbfounded by how _beautiful_ he was, and in such an understated way. Bowed mouth, smooth, creme-fraiche skin, golden eyes, and long, silky hair the color of bronze. After the first night, Charles saw him again. And again. A few months passed and his bi-weekly appointments were exclusively with the young man. It was more or less only domination, but there were certainly tender moments in between the Klokateer entering or leaving Charles’ quarters and surrendering and being given back his control.

_He goes so deep, it scares me. He can take whatever I give him, and there are things I know I want that I can’t give him. I’m fond of him. I’d prescribe an hour with him over Xanax. The deeper we’ve gone, the more involved the aftercare has become. I almost ended it the first time he really cried, sobbed. But he rode through it, kept assuring me he was OK and only wanted to be held. It’s in the after that we’ve started to share each other, in little stories that mean even less, but reveal bits and pieces. I know that I am making a mistake, I know this will somehow be a mistake one day, but for now, I choose to continue making it._

_For now, the benefits outweigh the risks._

It had been over six months and they had kept regular Tuesday-Fridays. Charles had grown tired of the number. Numbers weren’t sexy to moan in bed, even for a financial genius. “What can I call you?” _Boy_ and _Slut_ and _Pet_ were only for when he was wearing the collar, and it had become clear that as well as he wore it, Charles had started to enjoy their time together without it almost more than how indescribably perfect he looked with it on, hands behind his back, choking on his Master’s cock and gazing up at him with a blissed out, I’m-in-Heaven look in his watering, golden eyes.

21537 took his oath far too seriously to give Charles his real name; when he had become a Klokateer, he had given up everything, though the more they had grown to know one another, Charles understood there was little left for him to have given up.

A shrug from slim shoulders that kept permanent bite marks at this point. “I don’t know, why don’t you come up with something?”

Charles had thought on it for a time, addressing him with it when they saw each other next. “Quinn.”

The other had stopped halfway into the office--stiff?--caught off guard by the name. “Huh?”

“You told me to pick a name. I wanted to come up with something from your Gear number and wrote them out in Roman numerals. The five struck me, I thought maybe a V name, but then I remembered that the Latin is quinctus, so, Quinn. What do you think?”

There was a very long pause and Charles began to grow antsy, unable to see the other’s face, unable to read what he might be thinking. “Sure. Sure, yeah, I like it.”

So he called him Quinn, and after a few more months, Quinn began calling him Foster. Charles’ sentiment made him a bit reckless, but he had always kept two photos of his mother, his real mother, in his space in Mordhaus; one was a the small portrait on his dresser, in an antique Dutch silver frame. The photo had been taken before she was married, a young woman that would have passed for his twin sister at that age. The other was one of only two photos on his desk--a black and white taken mere days before she was killed, his younger self with her, both of them smiling and flashing a live-long-and-prosper. The second photo was from Dethklok’s first gold record party.

When Quinn had asked if he could call him by his middle name, he had agreed, but only after admitting, telling the first real bit of truth to Quinn, that it was what his mother had called him.

It was their own little world behind closed doors; no hood, no PDA. Off the Klok. After two years of regular appointments evolving into nearly every night spent together--Quinn even had a drawer of spare fatigues in Foster's dresser--they had finally stopped pretending that they weren’t already in a relationship.

_We don’t know what this means, but it’s silly to try and act like it isn’t something unique. For now, I am comfortable calling him my lover, though we have both agreed that it is best we keep it hidden for the time being. I was ready to introduce him to the band, to catch shit for not telling them I’d been seeing someone for the last couple years, but Quinn made a good point; he is still a Klokateer, and I am still their Commander. Things are becoming so complicated, so dangerous, I can’t compromise their respect, or control. When Quinn and I met, the Penta Squad numbered only a few dozen, and now, if most of these trainees make it through to the initiation, they will rank over a thousand._

_I never imagined it would grow this big, and without Quinn, I don’t think I could feel so sure I was capable of handling it._

In nearly a decade of managing Dethklok, Offdensen had taken all of three real vacations, one of which had still been with the band. Pickles was immediately suspicious when he informed them of his upcoming leave. “It’s only a week, it will be over before you know it. You boys are taking your own downtime right now, relaxing after the tour. If you need me, I’ll have my phone.”

No one asked questions when Quinn had put in his leave for the same week. Despite all the work-related deaths and die-hard loyalty, for the most part, the Klokateers functioned as smoothly as any other corporate power (or military, for that matter).

They didn’t do anything special, really, but that had been the point. Offdensen had rented them a cabin in the Appalachians not far from a small city, and each day, they would play roulette with Google Maps and found a new place to explore, or festivals and events in the area. Having grown up in France and only been outside of his home country for a few months before joining the Klokateers, Quinn had never heard bluegrass before. Neither of them liked it, but that wasn’t the point. It was a week of living in a suspended reality. Foster hadn’t even _brought_ a suit, Quinn had purchased a small wardrobe of street clothes. For seven carefree days and six passionate nights, they were, or nearly, a normal couple, doing normal things that couples did when they knew they had crossed the point of no return with one another. _That_ word hadn’t come up, but it didn’t need to, not yet. They’d spent each night holding each other, mornings kissing each other awake, days attached at the hand, fingers twined.

And then three months later, Mordhaus was an ashy, burnt husk and Offdensen was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

He’d buried it, he was very, very good at burying things deep down inside himself where they almost never got out. His family, his past, his rage, but Quinn wouldn’t stay buried. After he had healed and the Brothers of the Black Klok had begun to teach him their ancient ways, Quinn’s face floated out of meditations, he heard that gentle voice in his ear pulling him out of sleep, felt phantom hands on him late at night. He hadn’t forgotten, but so much had changed, and as he had admitted to Four-Fifty, he was not yet ready to learn if Quinn was dead.

_I know it was cowardice, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I knew it would break me, if he was gone, I would lose my will. If he hates me for leaving, if he feels lied to, if he’s found someone else, I can move past that in time, but I am so deeply relieved he is still alive, or else I don’t know if I would be, either._

It was underhanded and lacked even a hint of bravery, but he had checked the groundskeeping schedule and planned his morning run around it. He was finishing five miles just at the edge of Mordhaus’ rear courtyard, where a lone Klokateer knelt in the dirt, planting hostas. He knew it was Quinn; the narrow, twin bands of tattooed lace around his biceps was a dead giveaway. The other heard him approaching and turned around, going all deer-in-headlights. Foster--he only thought of himself as such around Quinn--could only imagine what the expression under the hood might be.

He slowed as he neared him, wiping sweat from his brow. “You do good work,” he offered lamely, gesturing to the well-kept landscaping. Quinn slowly got to his feet, favoring one leg--the bum knee--and wobbled slightly, staying in his spot. “I, ah…” He didn’t know what to say. I missed you? I thought about you every day? I came back from death and you were one of my first thoughts?

“ _I mourned so deeply for you…_ ” It was luck that French was one of Offdensen’s five languages. It had become their tongue of choice.

“ _I know. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry it took this long after I came back. I wasn’t sure if you were still alive, and I didn’t want to know if you weren’t._ ” He stepped a bit closer, but Quinn held his ground, slowly pulling off his dirty gardening gloves.

“ _Is it true, everything in the news?_ ” Quinn knew a very well edited version of the truth.

Foster grimaced, hoping he didn’t feel lied to. “ _Yes, it’s true._ ”

“So then, Foster really is your first name? You told me that’s what your mother had called you, so it wasn’t a lie.

\--Yes… what are you shaking your head about?

\--I still can’t tell you my full name, but… my real _middle_ name is Quentin, _the fifth_ ; I was born on the 5th of May. My mother, she always called me Quinn.”

Finally, he took a step forward. Foster didn’t even feel surprised by such things anymore. “ _That night, once it was all over and we’d made it out on the other side, I was going to…_ ” Quinn’s voice wavered and a coil of pain tightened in Foster’s chest. “ _I was going to tell you that I loved you._ ”

They continued moving slowly towards one another. “ _It, ah, it took a while longer than you expected, I’m sure, but, we’ve made it out on the other side._ ”

A hand went up and yanked off the hood, mussed hair framing a tear-streaked face, as beautiful as ever. “ _And I still love you._ ”

He wasn’t sure who had moved first, but it didn’t matter. He had missed Quinn’s kiss more than he had missed breathing in his moments of lifelessness. In the early morning quiet of Mordhaus, they’d made their way up to Offdensen’s wing, falling into bed and catching up on months of missed touches and mouths and moans. The noon sun over the mountains was glaring in through the windows by the time they had finally worn one another out, Foster’s arms wrapped around Quinn like he couldn’t bare to let go, stroking his hair, smelling him. He’d missed everything, every detail, every inch.

“What happened to you? Where did you go?”

A long, deep sigh. “I can’t tell you now. It’s too much, and once it’s the right time to reveal everything, the boys deserve to know first. But in time, you’ll know, I swear.”

Quinn sat up and shifted, both of them scooting to sit back against the headboard and Quinn pulled a pack of cloves from his bedside table, along with a crystal ashtray, and lit Foster’s cigarette first before lighting his own. “I understand. I do. But… is there anything I can know now?”

Foster finished the first cigarette, took another one from the pack and lit it before he spoke again. Quinn knew to be patient, to let him get his thoughts in order.

“I had never really thought of myself as a true Klokateer before. More, ah, honorary, but I’ve begun taking it quite seriously.

When it began to get so big, when I thought I couldn’t continue doing my job keeping true to my oath, and the Squad came into being, the components started to separate, and it became more clear what was happening.

There are people in this world that don’t mean shit. It’s terrible for them, but it’s true. Some people only exist so that their blood can grease the gears. Life isn’t fair, but it’s even. Balanced. And the world is falling _out_ of balance, it’s gone so slow it’s been easy to miss, but some have noticed the shift and been so helpless to change it, it’s transformed into a sort of global consciousness of… rage. Some let it kill them, others choose to harness it. They’ve got nothing to live for, but they’re willing to die for something. I used to think that meant suicide bombers and monks that sacrificed their lives in protest, but perhaps there is a middle ground, one that can best facilitate this righteous anger taking its course in the swiftest and least destructive path it can. Maybe that’s where the real transformation resides.

I let go of the emotional attachment, the ethical dilemmas. If the benefits outweighed the risks, I chose to move forward. And like a sieve, the gems in the dirt began to shine through. It does not take away the real horror, the very real and awful, crushing, fucked up things this world can be, but… if there isn’t a bigger picture, I truly, very honestly could not live with myself after the things I have done…

So I choose to believe in it, in that bigger picture, because I’d die for it, but it gives me so much to live for, too.

And so do you.

Quinn… I wish--I want to tell you everything, but I can’t just yet… soon, and maybe in pieces over time, but not yet. This is so much bigger, it’s gotten so much bigger than you can imagine, and I _need_ you to really try and imagine it. I don’t want to lose you if it’s too much, because I’ve, ah, revised and renewed my vows, in a sense… and I don’t want to assume you’d follow me that deep into the abyss.”

“You could always just bring me with you.” Quinn's fingers were back over the numerals in clean, black ink just under the inside of Foster’s left elbow.

II I V III VII

Foster let go of the tight ball of heartache in his chest, sighing out a laugh and curling himself against Quinn, fully intending to fall back asleep. “Don't worry, I already do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got very big very fast and I'm going to try and solidify the not-canon-canon as I catch up to where we're currently at, chronologically, in the actual series (because this story is definitely headed on past Doomstar Requiem). Strap in.
> 
> Disclosure/Spoiler: Quinn is here to stay, and yes, this is also a love story.


	6. Bed, Baphomet, & Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And the Devil laughs..._

This was not going well. He knew mixing business and pleasure would be a bad idea, but he thought he had found something of a kindred spirit in that sense with Michael. Tall, lithe, and ebony-black, Michael was as intelligent and ruthless in the courtroom as he was passionate in bed (or, say, the backseat of a Volvo). But Offdensen could see that the neutral face he’d been keeping up throughout the show was beginning to wane and he’d gotten through four beers already. When the boys left the stage, Charles turned to him, knowing it was a failure, but asking anyway, “So? What did you think?”

Michael took his time, turning around and finishing his beer, sliding the empty bottle across the bar. “Well…” He sighed. “Look, it’s not my thing. It’s not, Charles, I’m sorry. Obviously everyone here seems to enjoy it, but it’s not my taste or my scene.” Charles didn’t quite hide the disappointment from his face. Things were starting to move in the right direction and he was perfectly capable of acting as legal counsel, but there was only so much he could do without an admission to the bar. That’s where Michael had come in. The sex was just a bonus, and maybe that’s where he had overstepped the line.

Michael continued as he pulled out his wallet and left a hefty tip under his empty bottle. “I think it’s great what you’re doing, and I can see you’re having a lot of fun, but…” he turned back to Offdensen, touching his chin gently and leaning down to kiss him. Charles didn’t pull away, closing his eyes and letting himself be kissed goodbye. He knew that’s what it was. “Sorry, Charlie… best of luck.”

He made his way out of the crowd and Charles turned as the bartender was putting a neon blue drink down in front of him. “On the house,” she assured.

“What is it?”

“It’s called the I-Just-Got-Dumped. Tough luck, guy.”

Oh well. He hated being called _Charlie_ , anyway. He drank his pity-cocktail, waiting for the boys to have time to get settled before he made his way to the stage door and into the tiny green room. The venue’s crew was already nearly done putting their gear into the DethVan (so named more for its dodgy transmission than any self-indulgent play on the band name). “Great show, boys,” Offdensen quipped, announcing his arrival.

Nathan looked up from the small mirror on the table, wiping off the last of the corpse paint. “Oh! Oh… hey, uh, hey buddy. Ya all right? Ya doin’ OK?”

Offdensen’s brows sank down over the bridge of his nose. “Aaaah… yes?”

Pickles put an arm around his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “It’s OK, Affdensen. We know. I went out right after we left the stage to get a bottle o’ Jack, I saw your little breakup… too bad, buddy, that’s really too bad. He was… masculine looking?”

It took Charles a moment to assess the damage but was glad to see nothing worse than awkwardness. “Well, thank you for your, ah, concern, gentlemen, but, ah, it’s hard to break up with someone you’re not in a relationship with.”

Nathan stood up, pointing a stern finger. “Hey! Hey! Don’t you do that, don’t you feel ashamed! We’re not _homophobes!_ ”

“Yeah, we fuckin' love homosch!” Murderface pitched in, a dusting of potato chip crumbs punctuating his uncouth statement. Skwisgaar punched him in the shoulder. “OW! Asschhole!”

“What we’re trying to say is...” Nathan continued, coming closer and putting his large hands on Charles’ biceps. “We know that you’re gay, and that’s fine with us... I mean, it’s not really brutal, but it’s whatever, right? So you don’t have to hide anything from us. We… accept… you?”

Charles took the opportunity to turn and set his briefcase on a small card table, opening it, effectively breaking contact with both drummer and frontman. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Nathan, I assure you I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just didn’t find it relevant yet to tell you boys. After all, it’s my personal life, it doesn’t affect Dethklok. But yes, I exclusively date men, blah blah, and please continue to refrain from using any, ah, slurs around me, thank you.” He pulled a crisp stack of papers from the briefcase, turning and making sure he had all of their attentions. Magnus had a bottle of SKYY fisted around the neck, lurking in a dark corner, brooding. The rest of the band had effectively shunned him over the last few weeks. Charles had not intervened.

“Gentlemen, I have an announcement. They’ve never signed a death metal band, but I think I’ve found a record label that’s interested.”

Pickles' eyes it up. He was the only one with any real fame under his belt, though he had left that behind with hairspray, Los Angeles, and eye liner. “Well? What’s the catch?” There was always a catch. “Are they gonna try to fuck us on the advance?”

Offdensen kept a straight face. If stoicism were an Olympic sport, he’d be hunched with the weight of gold medals. “That’s something you can decide for yourselves.” He flipped open the file and handed the draft to Nathan, the letterhead at the top reading _Crystal Mountain RECORDS_. “Boys, how does half a million dollars sound?”

The silence was perfect, even the muffled sounds of the bar seemed to quiet. It was Pickles that finally broke it when he realized what was happening beside him, trying to create a diversion as Nathan began wiping angrily at his eyes. “That’s ah… well, ya know, it’s a little low, but…” he looked around to find even Magnus ecstatic. “Yeah. Fuck it. We’ll take it."

A startled, strangled sound was squeezed out of Charles as Nathan tackled him in a tight hug, lifting him off his feet. Through the embarrassing tears of excitement, he choked out, “If I was even a little gay I would suck your dick clean off right now!”

Offdensen accepted his fate and let the obligatory round of hugs and sloppy face-kisses run its course. And then the celebratory beers. And shots. And then back at Mordhaus (the name was spray-painted over the door of the tiny, shithole of an apartment) where there was more drinking, and even a bong rip Pickles hadn’t needed to coax him too hard into taking. He knew this would not be a regular occurrence by any means, but he wanted to have at least one opportunity to truly celebrate with them before the real work began.

At some point in the night, after Magnus had drank himself to sleep, the rest of them were still awake, daydreaming out loud about what it would be like, what songs to put on the record, where they might go on their first tour. Breaking cleanly away from the drunken fantasy-weaving, Pickles turned to Offdensen, who was still wearing his tie, but around his head. “Hey… I… you’ve been fuckin’ awesome to us, seriously. We’d probably still be playin’ shows for cab fare if it weren’t for you. We owe you a lot, but…” Nathan tuned into the conversation suddenly, severing all attention from Murderface and Skwisgaar, now honed in on Charles.

“Are you asking him to do it?”

Pickles rolled his eyes, throwing a bottle cap at Nathan. “I was gonna!”

Charles didn’t think he liked the sound of that. Pickles shifted back in front of him, eyes flickering with a mischievous green fire. No, Charles definitely didn’t trust this. “Aaah, what am I being asked to do?”

Pickles stuck his hand out behind him and Nathan put a paperback book into it. “We want you to swear an oath. To us. You know, like… loyalty and shit.”

Offdensen thought about it a moment, reaching up and pulling the tie off his head. “We could always renegotiate my contract?”

“No, fuck that shit! We want you to _swear an oath_. On the Satanic Bible.” He held up the book. The pentagram on the cover had faded to a bubblegum pink.

Offdensen thought about it for a moment, looked at the four of them sitting expectantly, watching him. After a moment, he let out a sigh, nodding. “All right. What kind of oath is this?”

They had apparently been thinking about this for some time. Pickles shot off the couch into the kitchen, coming back with candles, a wine glass with iron spikes around the bottom of the bell, 30 proof hobo wine, a Black Sabbath t-shirt, and a milk crate. He set up a small altar of sorts in front of Charles, the t-shirt serving as the cloth, and then sat down beside him, holding the book. “You’re on my left side, though.”

“Dood, yerr about to swear an oath to Satan, not da fuckin’ PTA.” Charles almost backed out, then asked for another hit. The bong--the chamber was an acrylic smiling skull, and the stem, the handle of an ax buried between the rotting plastic eyes--was passed around once before Skwisgaar added it to the altar. Charles, now only in his undershirt and slacks, scooted himself to the edge of the small sofa, putting back on his business face and resting his hand on the Satanic Bible.

“OK, and horns,” Nathan prompted, miming it until Charles did so, as well, making devil horns with his right hand in a very proper gesture, looking more like a master alchemist than the drunk manager of a death metal band.

“A’right, now repeat after us: I, and then say your whole name.”

“I, Charles Foster Offdensen,

\--doo solemnly fuckin’ sweear

\--Do solemnly fucking swear

\--to do whatever needs to be done to make Dethklok the most famous death metal band in history.

\--To be as ruthless and brutal as necessary to make Dethklok the most powerful musical force on the planet.

\--You ams swears nots to fucks us overs.

\--I swear to ensure the success and safety of each member, and to never deceive or manipulate them.

\--and not bring usch down with all that schtupid paperwork and buschinessch bullschhit.

\--I promise on my life to keep the logistics to myself, disclosing them on a ‘need to know’ basis, and will use my best judgment and discretion to decide what constitutes as ‘need to know’.

For these and all the future sins of my life, I am not sorry.

Hail Satan.”

Four excited voices echoed, warbling with laughter, “HAIL SATAN!”

*****.

Two months after signing with Crystal Mountain Records, Magnus had been kicked out of Dethklok--after _literally_ stabbing Nathan in the back--and written out of the contract, and Offdensen had gone to the internet to cast a wide net to fill his position. He left the choosing up to the band, and the boy they introduced to him as their new rhythm guitarist was barely eighteen, homeless, and had far too much innocence and goodness left in him to be involved with a band like Dethklok. But, he could also play like a sonovabitch, was now off the streets and sleeping in Magnus’ old spot in Mordhaus rather than on a piece of cardboard behind a dumpster, and the others had taken to him quickly, instantly pinning him as the ‘little brother’.

The advance had come through and Offdensen thought it high time they find a new place. He enlisted the help of a realtor and spent a weekend taking them to a few different rental properties, then took the DethVan to IKEA to furnish the four-bedroom they had found (Toki was perfectly happy with sleeping on the couch). He had reminded them at least a dozen times throughout the day that the money was also to finance completing the record and to not go too crazy, which is what he was about to do in the middle of a crowded IKEA. By the time they got to the lighting showrooms, Charles just handed an irritated IKEA associate his credit card and told them to start a tab.

“Pickles, you know, you could also _not_ break the lamps in the store.”

“But I di’n’t mean tooo! Toki _pushed_ me!”

“ _NOES I DIDS NOTS!_ ”

Offdensen had begun to believe that maybe there really was a Dark Lord and he had actually made an oath with him to watch over this adult-kindergarten of a band. All childish bickering and drunken escapades aside, they were growing quite a following, and in a week’s time they would record a single for pre-release which half a dozen area radio stations had already expressed interest in airing. They were getting better, as well, the tone of the music was solidifying into something signature, iconic. Offdensen watched the fans grow more and more ferocious, even militant.

It was still new, still fresh, but he could feel them getting powerful. In time, he knew with utmost certainty, they would be known across the world...


	7. The Hierophant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Klok lurches forward.

Expecting the apartment to be empty, Quinn was a bit thrown off seeing Foster in the kitchen, and in such a bright mood. The curtains were thrown open at the balcony doors, bright light from the crisp, winter sunrise glinting in off the mountains. As he neared, he could softly hear the gypsy-jazz finger-picked guitar of rural France, a tight fist of homesickness grabbing him around the lungs, and then letting go, vanishing, when Foster looked up and noticed him, the sizzle of what smelled like [his favorite thing that Foster made and would request as his last meal in the event of having such a choice] fried potatoes, full of fresh vegetables and seasoned with a simplistic perfection. As good as the sex was--and ‘good’ was almost an insult to how fucking mindblowing it was--, if he had a gun to his head, Quinn would pick his cooking.

Without missing a beat, going with the flow, he settled himself down at the small breakfast table where a cup of coffee was waiting for him; strong, and with a pinch of salt and cayenne, just like he liked it. Foster turned from the stove and kissed the top of his head briefly before getting back to breakfast, starting to pour crepes. Quinn bit back a moan. “Sleep well?”

Quinn rubbed his eyes and yawned, pulling his hair down and running his fingers through it, then putting it back up. “Very, thank you. I’d forgotten how comfortable that bed is...”

Foster scoffed, but was smiling. “I’m glad it worked out for you, then.” The lid went on the potatoes and Quinn knew what that meant. He could smoke a cigarette now, and when he was finished, breakfast would nearly be ready. He grabbed the pack from on top of the fridge--they’d be stale, that pack had been sitting there for nine months, just like the book he had been reading still sitting on his bedside table (going back into Foster’s space had been unthinkable)--and tugged his chair a foot or so over to the sliding glass door, cracking it open and quickly regretting it; a blast of icy wind shot up the back of his t-shirt--Foster’s t-shirt to be exact, a worn-to-soft-and-delicate one from Dethklok’s first tour. He shut the door quickly and croaked wordlessly at the cold. Foster flicked on the hood vent over the stove. “It’s below freezing still this morning, felt great for a run, though.” Quinn took his first drag, only half listening to Foster, but by the time he had fully exhaled, he was focused on him again. There was something different about him, for certain. Something… happy. “So I took the day off.”

_Oh god, it’s not him. It’s an imposter._

“And, ah, I hope you aren’t mad I did this without giving you a say so, but I may have shifted around some of your PTO and… you have the next _few_ days off. If you’d like, I can pull the requests for tomorrow’s timesheets, but today is… well, today is mandatory.”

Quinn’s cherry ran half the cigarette. Real fear that this was not Foster, that the man that had made love to him last night was not Foster at all, and the other could see the panic and confusion. He let out a patient sigh and took the clove from him, tapping the ash into the sink and pulling a drag from it before handing it back. Without much warning, he gently invaded Quinn’s lap, straddling himself across it. “I know it hurt you, that I didn’t say it back last night. I saw, and I’m sorry for that. I hope, though, that you understand that I didn’t want the first time I said those words to you to be only as a response.

I didn’t completely _fake_ my death, Quinn. I died. I came back, but all the same, I felt my death, I experienced it, and I’m no longer afraid to die, but it’s made me realize, more than my own life, that I am terrified of losing you.”

The hood fan was doing a very good job of calming the smoke alarm. The current crepe in the pan was extra fucked and the potato hash was getting on the wrong side of golden brown. They could both smell it, they knew, but they chose not to acknowledge it, the moment focused intensely on the scant space between them. Foster wet his lips, feeling fear almost knock his legs out from under him, but leaping at the last moment, “Quinn…” A single tear rolled down the high-boned cheek and Foster was glad to see he wasn’t completely going into shock, gently reaching out to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb. “I love you.”

A calm came back into the room, though they continued to neglect the blackened crepe and charred ( _defiled_ ) potatoes. “What…” Quinn cleared his throat and let out a long, releasing breath before he could continue, “What does this mean for us?”

Foster smiled and dismounted Quinn’s lap, calmly dumping the ruined crepe in the sink and pulling the potatoes skillet off its heat. “I’ve spent a lot of time imaging just about every option, I think; I mean, the most plausible ones, anyway. And, ah, on the stipulation that you are in my life at all, I am honored, ah, to accept whatever else you’re willing to share with me.”

Quinn squeezed his fists hard, knuckles going white, fingernails digging into his palms, and then let it go. “You’ve thought about this for a while, huh?”

“Oh, give or take nine months.”

Quinn was very still for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost weak. “Foster, do you realize how long I’ve waited for this? I had started to think it would never come, and I was fine with it, as long as I was still in your life…” He sighed and gave his lover a smile to let him know that the now inevitably, impending tears would be ones of quiet joy. “I, um… I have known that I’ve loved you since the day you first collared me. Looking back now, it seems childish that I thought that was the most I could ever love someone. And since then, I’ve just… loved you more.” There was a very long pause that Foster knew to have patience through. He scrapped the breakfast and started a new batch of Quinn’s favorite. While he was chopping mushrooms, waiting for Quinn to be ready to speak again, he knew he could not have imagined what came next. “Foster, I almost didn’t live without you. I… please just understand what I mean, I can’t… I’m so ashamed and so glad, especially now, that I’m all right, but… I was so very, very close to not surviving you.”

Gently, Foster put the knife down, wiped his hands on a dish towel and walked back to Quinn, kneeling in front of him. “I know… or, I was fairly certain that’s what had happened, or nearly happened. A, ah, little hoodie told me.” He gave Quinn a small smile and then a shrug in apology. “I’m so sorry I didn’t try to let you know somehow…” He leaned in and gripped Quinn’s biceps, closing around the tattooed lace, meeting his eyes purposefully. “I want to make you an offer, and you’re free to decline it, but I know that you’re qualified. I need a personal detail, but also a partner for some of the things I’m playing close to the chest right now. This will require hoodless work, undercover missions, similar to your assignments with Penta Squad but… I need you to know everything, or as much of everything as I can tell you. I need you to help me bare it.

And I want you to live with me. Here. Not in the barracks anymore. If you’re my detail, it won’t seem suspicious, but that’s only a convenient coincidence. You’re the one I trust most, and one of the best intelligence agents I have.

\--But I’m on leave, I was pulled from active duty…

Not anymore. Not if you want this.”

Quinn opened and closed his mouth a few times before he figured out what to say. “Which thought occurred to you first? The job, or me living here?”

Foster let out a short laugh, pulling Quinn into an embrace. “You living here. Us being together again, and doing it right this time. It was just a happy accident that I fell in love with someone that reminds me so much of myself at that age.”

Quinn wiped the tears away, laughing. “You don’t even know how old I am.” It had been a stipulation from the beginning. It was clear the age gap was not a small one, so they had never disclosed the information. “Were you really 27 in 1993?” Oof… or at least they hadn’t.

“I really should have lied about that…” He sighed and went back to remaking breakfast, Quinn lighting another cigarette and warming his hands around his cup of coffee. “Now it’s not fair anymore, though. I finally know your birthday, so now you’ve got to come clean on the year, too.”

Quinn made a face, hanging his head back dramatically. “Nooo, it’ll make you upset, I know you…

\--Oh come on, I think I’ve finally gotten used to the fact that I’m almost fifty. Really. How old?

\--...Twentyyy…

\--Twentyyy? Eight?

\--Lower…

\--You’re right, I don’t want to know.”

*****.

Ishnifus looked more rested that he remembered ever seeing him, the monks spending much of their days now in meditation or performing power-raising rituals to lend energy to the band, or _the Lights_ , as they referred to them so ominously. The grand hall felt thick with energy, and yet was largely silent, save for the distant hum of chanting. “Brother Foster! I did not expect to see you return so soon.”

Charles stepped into the looming shadow of robes, both of Father Meaddle’s hands going to his shoulders. “Yes, Father, neither did I.” Wordlessly, they separated and began to walk deeper into the sanctuary, through a heavy, iron door and down into a cool, dry stone chamber. “The young man I told you about, you remember?”

Ishnifus took a moment, humming, and then recognition dawned. “Ah, yes, the soldier! He is alive, then?”

“Very much so. I saw him again for the first time since my return just a few weeks ago.”

“And?”

“And he waited. We’re, ah, living together now.”

Ishnifus turned so quickly that Foster nearly ran into him. “Oh! Foster, that is _wonderful_ news. I had been so worried for you, if you had returned to find him gone.”

“Yes, ah… so was I…”

_Quinn gave me this letter tonight. He told me what happened, what he had done when I was gone._

_Five months in, on my birthday, he hit his threshold and took a leave. I had not known this before, either, but he admitted to me that before joining the Klokateers he had been very much in lust with heroin. That night, he made a purchase and, as he describes it, fell off the wagon, and overdosed, on purpose._

_This is the letter he had in his pocket:_

_**Foster,** _

_****I thought I’d escaped having to feel this kind of grief anymore when I swore I’d die for Dethklok. But now I’ll die for you. I’ll break my vows, let them toss me in the sewers with the Level 1 jackoffs and reuse my number, none of it matters to me anymore without you. I hope that there is another side and that I can find you again somewhere in it._

_I’m sorry.  
I’m sorry._

_**21537** _

_Pain and love are such a similar sensation in large doses… but he’s still here, and he leaves his boots in the living room even though I ask him not to, and even with headphones on, he still has the volume too high when I’m reading, and he says things to me that I wouldn’t believe about myself if it weren’t for the look in his eyes when he says them._

Foster let all of this leave his mind as they arrived at the far end of the chamber, standing before the orb, the Eye of the Whale, preparing to open it. Ishnifus placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. “Are you ready?”

Foster let out a long, controlled breath and then quietly, “yes.”

They both reached forward and placed their hands against the vibrating sphere of opal, and the colors began to separate, shifting, emitting light that broke out from the swirling white smoky depths and shot sharp streaks of color up onto the curved ceiling of the chamber, a natural cave. The lights grew stronger, the opal vibrating faster and beginning to rotate just below the outer shell where they rested their hands. 

At first Foster had thought the device was some type of magickal portal, a tool of sorcery, but he had come to understand it more as an ancient form of technology. The vision projected onto the face of the stone began to take shape and voices filtered through the space, emanating from nowhere. It was the same vision from before, the one they had seen coming for the last several moons. “I can’t watch this…”

“Yet we cannot intervene.” 

_After a long, uh, deliberation, uh… thing… we’ve decided that Dethklok--_

Ishnifus closed his eyes and moved one hand over Foster’s. “Focus. Your fear is bringing the vision back. You must accept that it shall come to pass; it already **is**.” 

Foster tried to center himself, to find a peaceful place inside his mind. He closed his eyes and waited to hear anything more, anything new. Ishnifus chuckled softly. “He is a very lovely young man…” Foster opened his eyes again to see Quinn asleep on the ceiling, the image shifting and shimmering like lights on water, moonlight bathing his face, turning his hair to oiled brass. “But you must focus harder.”

He felt his face flush, shaking his head with a smile. “I’m sorry… it’s been so long since I just got to… look at him. I watched him sleep most of last night.” They both quieted and the image faded, Ishnifus syncing his breath to Foster’s until Foster took notice and began to relax into his own.

He could feel the vibration of the sphere rattling at his bones, his core humming with it, and then, quietly, he heard from nowhere in particular, “ _Jag är inte ont…_ ” It was a child’s soft voice, sprinkled with tears, the kind children cried because they had been scared, not because they had been hurt.

He looked up at the ceiling, at the tableau in the ice cave, at the young boy he knew was Skwisgaar, carefully getting to his feet off the stone floor of the ancient hall. The Thunderhorse sent down from the Gods… the image distorted and the Thunderhorse was now spiraling through the air, plunging neck-first into the snow. Foster jerked slightly, pulling his hands away from the orb. It quickly groaned to a halt.

Ishnifus sighed patiently. “I know it is hard for you, I know how important they have become to you, but if you do not look, it will still happen, and happen with you unprepared.”

Foster clenched his fists and then released them, a habit he had picked up from Quinn. “There is so much coming, so little time.”

“Do not worry now about time. Stay diligent, stay focused.” Ishnifus pulled his hand away from the sphere and it darkened, the colors and light glinting only faintly inside the stone. “There is something more pressing at hand than the Returning of the Thunderhorse. There is a new part of the Prophecy unveiling itself.”

They left the chamber and climbed the stairs back to the main hall, continuing on to the the reason the entire Church even existed. Foster had come to know that this place was not built around the Prophecy so much as the Prophecy had been built up around the place, the Klok constructed in the same volcanic ocean caves with it to sync with the shifting time fields. It wasn’t magick, not quite, it was the stuff of science fiction more than the books of necronomic spells he had been fascinated with his whole life.

The Prophecy had been completed on these walls thousands of years ago, when the islands and caves had just cooled and formed, but the nature of the Prophecy, of the Death Lights, and of Salacia, the Half Man, was that it was not a static line forward. Bits and pieces of the Prophecy shifted in and out of being, stabilized by the vision spheres and prayer, the energy around this place crafted just as the ornate buttresses had been carved.

Ishnifus lifted the edge of his robes as he stepped up to the Wall of Prophecy. Foster could never approach without looking at himself, the skeleton figure with the golden halo. It had taken him months to finally accept his part in this. He looked over the paintings, some shimmering and fading even as he stood before them, and he saw one he did not recognize pulsing softly. “We believe the Prophecy foretells the Death Lights torn between two bitter enemies. This upheaval, if uncontained, could derail the entire chain of events to come.” Even as he spoke, the images below the new piece were fading and shifting. The latest portion was a watery, rippling portrayal of two clans holding spears and the Death Lights, represented as five points on a pentagram, hung above where they met, frozen in the moment just before the first strike of battle.

Foster cursed under his breath. “I was afraid of this… even _without_ all of this, tensions have been high in the Middle East. I just booked a concert in Israel for them, it’s hardly six months away.”

“Then we must work quickly to understand all the details that we can. This event will be one of the most critical so far. I believe that we may need to conjure up a strong magick to keep the Klok moving forward at its pace. This is one point in time we must ensure remains fixed. The outcome, for the moment, is murky.”

This had been the main source of Foster’s disbelief and frustration before coming to terms with the Brotherhood. Time was out of its steady march forward in this place. The Brothers of the Black Klok had maintained ancient, powerful secrets to shift and stabilize it. He had been left with a bitter taste in the back of his throat and tingling fingertips when Ishnifus had first made it abundantly clear that not every person he passed in these halls was of this time. Some were from farther down the cycle, some earlier, but all were Brothers, kept tethered by this place to protect the Prophecy.

“What should we do?”

“For now, I will continue summoning forth as much of the Prophecy as will reveal itself. As for you, there is much that has fallen out of balance with Dethklok, as well. Concentrate on your work, be certain that at least they are looked after and as prepared as they can be for what is to come.” Ishnifus smiled, a twinge of sadness in it, placing a hand fondly at the back of Foster’s neck. “Go home to your soldier, take solace in him, and we will speak of this again when the time is correct.

If we intervene a moment too soon, we could forfeit this entire ordeal.” He had steered Foster away from the Prophecy and back towards the atrium, turning now down the corridor leading into the monks’ dormitories. “And in this immediate present, Brother Chamberlain has prepared a lovely dinner. I’d be honored if you joined us.”

Foster smiled, accepting graciously. He had learned to employ tremendous patience with Ishnifus, he had come to trust his judgment, but it did not stop the gnawing worry wedged somewhere between his lungs, a fluttering, pounding thing beating its wings against the inside of his rib cage.

The world was ending, and for now, they could only watch. Foster wished he was a child again, that he could still believe the world might go away if he only closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried not to do too much unnecessary exposition with this chapter; what is not quite clear will make sense in time.


	8. Gears, Queers, + Klokateers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This is some good drama._   
>  _\--You can't pay for this._   
>  _\--No, you can't._   
>  _\--It just simply is._   
>  _\--It's like an eclipse or something._   
>  _You just gotta be there."_

Offdensen was seeing more red than the thick ribbons of blood oozing down his chin, onto the grease-stained alleyway pavement. It fueled his rage further to know the fat fuck hadn’t even hit him that hard to draw so much blood, catching him with a misaimed hook, his teeth gashing open the inside of his cheek. His vision was beginning to tunnel, honed in on Dethklok’s former manager, who had come to their last local show before the big tour and decided that starting shit with Offdensen was a good idea. He was finding out, minus three teeth later, that it was in fact a pretty fucking terrible idea.

Offdensen had ignored the initial instigation easily--it had been standard, run-of-the-mill shit-talking, and not even very good shit-talking, at that--but when the mullet-shag dildo had slammed Pickles against the dumpster outside the venue, Offdensen had _lost it_. “You wanna fucking try me?” he’d remembered saying before everything was all rage and instinct and the next thing he knew he was bleeding profusely from the mouth, his knuckles were throbbing with his heartbeat, and Nathan was hauling him up off of his predecessor.

“All right, all _right_! You got ‘im, fuckin’ lay off!” Sweat-Stains was still on the ground, conscious but dazed. “We got all the gear, let’s just get the fuck outta here.” The six of them--plus the roadies they had hired as a front of house engineer, guitar tech, and stage manager--piled into the DethVan, Pickles all but forcing Charles to swish bourbon to sterilize the gash in his cheek. Charles swallowed it, took another long pull from the bottle, and handed it back to the drummer.

“Dood… you a’right?”

“I’m _fine_ , Pickles. You?”

“Yeah, dood, I’m good. Christ… you went apeshit on that fucker!”

“You’re the ones that made me swear an oath, need I remind you…”

“I mean, I’m not complain’ or not’in’, it was _awesome_ , I mean…”

“Yeah, that was _badassch!!!”_ ”

“Yeah, but dood… you gotta--do… do we need to take you to the hospital?” Charles was still drooling blood down his chin and neck, staining his dress shirt.

Offdensen sighed deeply. “Probably.”

Pickles borrowed a MagLite from one of the techs--he didn’t ask why they all wore ski masks, the weirdos--and made Charles let him look into his mouth. “Yeah, dood, you need stitches.”

This was the incident he was reminded of as he was being coaxed into the chair, drunker than he should have been and with the same stinging knuckles of a good fight. The boys had started calling the crew Hoodies, but they called themselves the Klokateers, and Offdensen was intrigued by their code of conduct and mission statement.

**No bullshit.**  
**Protect the band.**  
**Be prepared to enforce both of these by any means necessary.**  
**You are a Gear; no name, no face. Only a part of the machine to keep the Klok going.**

The extent to which they lived by this code had only just become clear to him.

The tour was a couple weeks away and Offdensen knew he needed to understand fully what to expect from the Klokateers--now four staff members and a few dozen fans that had already spent an atrocious amount of money to follow the band across the country during the tour--before anything unsavory cropped up in the middle of Dethklok’s first national run.

The staff had invited him to join one of their _’training exercises’_ and get an idea of what was really going on, but they had one condition: he had to participate. No spectators. If he disapproved he would be free to leave, but there was no option to stay without taking part in the exercise.

The first half of the meeting was spent discussing the tenets of their credo and refining the details of current operations. As it stood, there were fans that monitored the pit at each show, weeding out the drunk assholes, and flyered and stickered before every gig. They were free publicity, causing a buzz when a group of twenty people all dressed the same and wearing masks showed up at a gig. Offdensen was intrigued to find them of every walk of life. Multiple genders, races, art students and burger-warriors alike. And after the logistics of the meeting were done, each one of them paired down to jeans--and bras for the women--and proceeded to fight.

Not spar.

Fight.

The operative wasn’t only to learn how to defend themselves and Dethklok, but also to learn to take a beating.

The fights were chosen by random draw. Offdensen was matched with a stocky-built twenty-something sporting the strangest interpretation of a Chelsea he’d ever encountered. Sebastian, the front of house engineer, called the round. Offdensen expected a bit of circling, but the kid came straight for him. He sidestepped and caught Chelsea in the kidneys with an elbow. The kid rolled and was quickly back on his feet, coming back with more caution but just as much fire. He even managed to get a few good hits in before Offdensen laid him out with a roundhouse powerful enough that one of the women had to make sure he was still breathing. When it was determined he was only unconscious, the next fight began.

Sebastian took Offdensen aside while the woman who had checked to make sure Chelsea hadn’t croaked mercilessly pummeled a tall, scrawny skinhead. “So what do you think?”

“I think you’re zealous, obsessed, dangerous… and I think you’re exactly what Dethklok needs. The ski masks, though…”

“I know, I know… we were going for executioners’ hoods.”

“Then just get those?” A pause stretched in which it became clear that Sebastian didn’t quite know how to go about acquiring them. Ski masks were easy, accessible. “I’ll take care of it.” 

Sebastian offered him a beer and they stood at the edge of the fight, watching an aging metalhead end his round within a few seconds with a swift jab that resulted in a badly broken nose. Offdensen would have been more put off if two of the Klokateers had not been EMTs, bruised and scraped up themselves, but treating any wounds that required it.

By the time Dethklok were heading off on their first leg of a real tour as a signed band, there were seven Klokateers on the payroll and Offdensen had begun to personally fund their compensation. Dethklok’s reputation proceeded them on every stop--they had several sold-out venues--but the money would take a while to get back around to them, filtering in through the label. He’d make it back in time, he was certain.

Fucking around with Sebastian was surprisingly not as big of a deal as he’d first feared it would be when he realized how strong the sexual tension between them had become. A thirty-two year old Croatian immigrant, Sebastian was olive skinned, nearly black-eyed, and just as hairy as Offdensen, and in all the right ways. It was one of the first times Offdensen had been with another man as masculine in physique as himself, and he found that he liked it. Neither of them would bottom, it became like a game between them, but there were other ways they had fun. And that was exactly what it was; fun. In truth, they had become rather good friends, and as Offdensen got himself acclimated to the metal world, he had started to find himself relating with the Klokateers, coming around again and again to the inebriated Oath to Satan he had sworn for Dethklok.

It was in the middle of a three-day break in Detroit that Sebastian came clean about the Klokateers wanting to form their own rite of passage, and Charles told him about the Oath. Sebastian had been ecstatic, blurting out that he wanted do tattoos or brands, and then, becoming strangely calm and smiling at Offdensen in a way that made him uncomfortable, he had asked “Would you do it? A permanent seal like that?”

And here he was, straddling the back of a hotel room chair while a local Klokateer who happened to also be a legitimate tattoo artist inked the design he had drawn into the skin between his shoulder-blades. It was an adaptation Charles had sketched up for the boys based on their ideas--the name spelled out as if in scythes, with skeletal Klok Gears in the center, complete with cuckoo clock weights. Only the Gears and the Weights blessed his skin, creating a silhouette similar to that of a dream catcher.

“This one gets to be yours only, Offdensen.” Sebastian was feeding him shots now and again, keeping him nice and relaxed so as not to regret it mid-inking and leave himself looking half-assed. “We’ll design our own, make the Oath our own, but you’re the first. You got that? Congratulations, Number One, you’re the first official Klokateer.” It was the only time Offdensen had ever worn the Hood.

By the time they had crossed the halfway point of the tour, it had become clear that something more eerie than coincidence was happening around Dethklok. Car accidents, fans getting trampled, venues’ house crew getting electrocuted or crushed by falling lighting electrics, hung with upwards of half a ton of incandescent instruments, starting a fire. They had had to reschedule that show, the damage had been so bad. Their drum tech had lost an ear in a knife fight with a psychotic homeless man. Two fans who had followed them to the next stop after first seeing them in Baltimore jumped off a bridge together when they found out that the Brooklyn show was sold out.

And at a larger gig with five or six other newly-national metal bands, a girl in stiletto thigh-high boots had fallen over the railing while flashing her pierced, plastic tits, plummeting down into the sound booth. The heels of her boots had punctured both of Sebastian’s lungs. He had drowned in his own blood within minutes, no one equipped to help him fast enough. The venue was much larger than the others they had gotten used to, the EMT Klokateers had been too far away and stuck in a seething pit of fans, unable to get to him in time.

But just like the other gruesome and bizarre accidents, it had been quickly forgotten. A house engineer took over the board while a coroner’s team quickly and quietly took Sebastian’s body away, and Charles had hired the kid on for the rest of the tour, paying him plenty up front to keep him from thinking twice about saying yes.

That had also been the last interaction he had had as a Klokateer. He placed Sebastian’s second in command, 003, in charge of the staff, with himself as an executive consultant, so to speak, and he hadn’t showed his Gears to anyone outside of the few that signed waivers to never remember it since then.

At least, until two weeks before he would officially take back over his position as Commander following his 'resurrection'. He had been working with One-Six-Sixty-Six since his return to Mordhaus, but until other things--like the financial wreck Dethklok had driven themselves into, and squashing the resurfacing of his own past--were at least stabilized, he had left the Klokateer in charge. There were changes he wanted to make, a reworking of their old methods to produce a more efficient Klokateer. They would have to be turning over more DethSoldiers soon, and selecting more Penta Squad members from their ranks. That meant that he had to change the way he related to them, as well.

He had already done nearly two hours of business on the phone with the European divisions of the company and had his morning run. The shock was apparent even behind the Hoods as he strode through the atrium of the barracks, heading to the PT complex. No suit. No jacket. He didn’t think there were any of them living anymore that might actually know what his forearms looked like. He had at least warned the instructor of the Judo class that he would be arriving, but the students were stunned. He strode in without any announcement, toeing off his shoes at the door, peeling off his socks, handing his phone and glasses over to the instructor. “A little change of plans this morning,” he stated casually, stripping off his t-shirt and tossing it into the corner with his sneakers. “I’ll be instructing today. Now, I’ve already had a stressful morning and I’m feeling a little tense, so…” He stepped to the center of the studio, his back now to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and the collective gasp pulled a full smile out of him. He knew they were no longer looking at him, but the reflection of the Gears. “Who’d like to get their asses handed to them?”

An instant sea of hands shot up with frantic haste. The smile held strong a moment more before fading. “Good. You. Come here. Now, I won’t go easy on you, so don’t go easy on me. Hit me.”

The ringing in his ears was the sound of pride.

_Daddy’s home…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm writing this, the "tone" is becoming a lot more clear, and I'm cackling thinking of like... the exact same animation and everything, just directed/shot like it's an indie action drama.
> 
> ur welcome


	9. Thought & Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Land of the Blind,  
> the One-Eyed Man is King.

The first year back was a blur. He had gotten Quinn up to speed with Project Falconback and they had completed a few intelligence gathering missions together when time permitted, but he was still acting as his usual trinity of functions for Dethklok, as well as Commander, and Brother of the Church. Ishnifus had assured him that for the time being, the best thing they could do was guide and observe. He had loosened his grip on the reins and let the boys make mistakes here and there, glad to find them smoothed over on their own before too long.

He spent time with them when he could, which was not often. Currently, he had about twenty minutes before he would be departing for a business meeting and the boys were at the barbeque, palling around. Charles had one leg crossed over the other at the edge of the picnic table, going over a stack of contracts that needed to be revised and resubmitted. Nathan was mowing down a row of antique grandfather clocks with an AR-15.

Offdensen didn’t look up as he spoke, still scanning the document and making quick notes for later. “Nathan, now what have I told you? It’s got selective-fire for a reason. If you’re going to run it hot, either switch it to full automatic or use three-round bursts. Otherwise, ah, she’ll jam. I’d put money on it.”

Nathan stopped for a moment, tried a few bursts, the shots clustered tightly through the clock faces. Offdensen had his small hobbies with each of them, and Nathan’s had been firearm proficiency. (He and Toki shared puzzles and drawing, Pickles thought he was the only one that knew Charles smoked pot from time to time, Skwisgaar thought he was the only one that knew Charles played guitar, and he and Murderface attended auctions together, sharing a fascination with historic weaponry and warfare.) After a dozen triplets or so had gone into the antiques, Nathan switched the weapon over to full automatic, shoved in a fresh magazine, and emptied the clip.

Offdensen heard the chopper start up from across the complex, checking his watch. Right on time. “Boys, I know I’ve mentioned it before, but just a reminder that I’m having that surgery Thursday,” he tapped the bridge of his nose with the end of the pen, “and I’ll be out for a of couple weeks. I’ll still be here at Mordhaus, but ah, until I’m off the good drugs, well, I’ve got everything lined up to make sure you’re covered.”

Toki stopped mid-scribble, a coloring book of medieval torture devices massacred in dark garnet crayon. “Whats surgeries? You’s gonesa be OK?” He had admitted openly to Charles that he was scared of them losing him again. Charles had had to make him promises he didn’t know if he could keep.

“There’s no need to worry, Toki, it’s a very, ah, minor surgery, just some corrective things to, ah, take care of.” Well, it wasn’t a lie. His nose had been broken badly enough that he had developed some sleep apnea, as well, and they had to clear out the area to fit the Oculus, anyway. Omission wasn’t lying, not really. Just like the car accident as a child, no one needed to know where all the other scars came from.

*****.

_Quinn made me face a hard truth today. This afternoon, he startled me. I didn’t see him come into the office. I’m never caught off guard like that. He knelt down in front of me and examined my eye, asking how much vision I had lost. He has already made comments about the discoloration. The river-rot brown has been creeping slowly outward from around the pupil for the last year. I admitted I had lost some, I knew my peripheral was impaired. I had nearly lost that eye already, the healing process was slowest with it. I knew it needed to be seen to. I didn’t realize how much._

_Quinn sat on my desk in front of me, leaned in close and said, “I’m going to do the same thing with both my hands, OK?” On my left side, I watched his hand go up, finger tracking back and forth, not even a full arms breadth from his body. I don’t remember if I’ve ever cried in front of him, but I came close. I hadn’t realized it was that bad. He saw my panic, and fear, said nothing and hugged me._

_He’s wary of this idea, but he knows as well as I do I can’t afford any weaknesses right now. None of us can._

The Oculus Beta had been in development since Dick Knubbler had lost his eyes in a depressurizing malfunction leaving the DethSub. It had already been in the works and Offdensen felt he owed it to Knubbler to try and assist with his loss. It didn’t hurt that it was also a way to ensure he would not be returning to the Tribunal anytime soon. He had allowed Knubbler to infiltrate them during the recording of DethWater, needing information about the force he’d begun to sense at the edges of the usual fan deaths and bizarre accidents.

The project had remained on the table for the last several years, and while it was still not perfected, with Jomfru’s prowess now part of their pool of resources, Offdensen was firm that he would be the first human candidate, period, ready to be fitted with the finalized prototype, I-4N Eye. If the interface was functional, they would go to beta-testing Hoods with the same comm-system technology.

With his attention and energy pulled in so many different directions, there was, at least, one constant. Through all the work, through all the exhaustion and brief moments of true rest, there were the dreams.

_I had one again last night, perhaps the most complete so far. It’s still the same, though, always the same._

The dreams plagued him, seized his thoughts at any moment they could. Even as he bound Quinn’s wrists behind his back, he was playing the dream back over and over in his head.

_At first, I think I’ve woken up and there’s a sound in the kitchen. I pull on my robe, Quinn is still asleep next to me. When I arrive at the balcony, the doors are open and there is a cool, balmy breeze coming into the apartment. Toki is sitting in one of the lounge chairs, head back, eyes closed. I’ve had this dream so many times, yet I never realize I am dreaming, that this is not Toki and that I’ve seen this all before, until he opens his eyes, and begins to speak, and three brilliant points of light pour out, illuminating the mountains._

A long moan that trails off into a sob pours out of Quinn, squirming under the sharp strikes of the scourge. Foster brought it down harder, yanking a scream from him.

_I am so afraid and then the Light stands up, and smiles at me, and the glow from inside him dulls enough to look into, and he speaks, the inside of his mouth illuminated in a pulsing, white-hot red._

_“He had a nightmare. It’s over now, I gave him good dreams, but he wanted to come and see you.”_

_Toki has done this before, come to me for comfort when the horrors of his past arrive in sleep to visit. The thing speaking to me is not Toki’s voice, not really. The same physical components are there, but the tambour is relaxed and with a cadence that is half mad, the intonation bobbing up and down, sing-songing to me._

_“We are having to suppress them very strongly now, the time is close. It has made it difficult for you, I am sorry for this. The careless things they say to you are not meant with any harm. We must maintain their blindness until they are absolutely ready, until there is no way out but through Us.”_

_I know the Prophecy, I have accepted the strange, terrifying, inexplicable things to come, but even in dreams, when the Lights speak to me, especially Toki’s Light, I find myself unable to respond, barely able to process the exchange at all. It is like being at the event horizon and peeking over the edge into the swirling Void; beautiful, and awful._

_“There is something you need to understand. We are not alone. There are more of Us coming, waiting to be primed, trained. You are just as much a part of this as any of Us. You think it was only happenstance, that you were killed when the Half Man took the General’s mind, that it might have been anyone. No. You have always been a part of this, and you always will be. Every time this happens, and it is always happening, some piece of you will be involved. And I’m sorry, but each time, some piece of you will always die.”_

_I’m paraphrasing. None of this was in English. It floated between what I assume is old Norse, something I could gather together well enough, and Latin, which was easier to translate, but harder to interpret. And then like always, he stepped close to me, and I became afraid for Toki. Looking at him as a shell, knowing he as a consciousness was not at all involved with the conversation going on unsettled me. Like always, the Light reached forward and held his hand expectantly out in front of him until I pressed my palm against his, and a warmth began to creep up my fingertips, into my wrist, up my arm. It felt like I was being pulled slowly under, into a hot spring._

Quinn locked his ankles at the small of Foster’s back, gasping and moaning, straining against the silk rope. His bound hands were underneath him, unable to hold Foster back as he put a hand over his throat and leaned on it.

 _And then he told me his name, in his own language, and I could feel it pass through me, I_ felt _the meaning. He frowned, unsure of a translation. I filtered through the sensation. “Abandon.”_

_“ **YES!** ” So excited, so childlike. Somehow, that is why I fear him the most. “Do you want to know **your** name, Foster, baptized in blood by Johann, son of Odin?” He leaned in and placed his other hand over my heart and felt it stop mid-beat, just freeze. “Do you want to know **his**?”_

Quinn was starting to shift away from his consciousness, taking the opportunity of Foster’s loosened grip as he came to suck in a breath and shoved it back out in a scream, bringing his lover back to reality. The hand left his throat and the ropes were quickly gone. The trust that Quinn placed in him was unreal at times; he had only laughed as they cleaned each other up, rubbing his neck. “I really thought you might kill me.”

The morning was quiet and peaceful, one of the last before he would return to work, though Quinn had been scheduled for PT and was already gone. There was a banana, bottle of water, and a short note that Foster had _better actually **rest**_ on the bedside table.

The dream was back no sooner than he had brushed his teeth and gotten dressed. He’d had it again last night. It was time to test the port, anyway, maybe he could settle himself if he went back and watched the footage, assure himself there was only the back of his eyelid after falling asleep with Quinn spooned against his back.

The small cover flap sat flush with the inside of his wrist, matched almost perfectly to the eggshell white of his skin. He pulled it open and booted up his laptop, carefully fitting the USB connector into the port, the flesh under and around it still sore, still fusing with the new hardware. The Eye had worked simply as an eye from the time the swelling had gone down enough to open it, but he had yet to initialize the Oculus interface, or test the link out at his wrist. (Comm-systems had been implanted, as well. The watch had become a bit too hokey for him. Their technology was exceeding such Bond-Villainesque gear.)

He sipped a cup of tea while he waited for the interface to boot, watching prompts and command lines race across his vision, closing his left eye to cut down on how disorienting it was.

When the I-4N Eye had completed initializing, Oculus took over, the feed cutting to black momentarily before returning, clearer than before. He could focus as if looking at a screen in front of his face and read the alerts, change the input to infrared or use optical zoom. It would take some time to master, but so far, it was all working.

Time to test the other features… attention now shifted to the laptop, he began to pull the last eight hours of footage, watching it load and process, stored down onto the secure cloud drive he’d set up specifically to backup all surveillance every four hours. For private moments, he did have a stream-only option. He had made sure to add it in for Quinn’s sake, not wanting to have a store of every time they were intimate somewhere on the servers.

He had not used the feature last night… the start of the eight hours was in the middle of blowing Quinn. He let himself watch for a few seconds before fast forwarding, rushing through Quinn nearly losing consciousness and then darkness as they both fell asleep soon after.

As expected, the darkness of his closed eyes was all the film appeared to be, on and on. He let it play out in quintuple speed, just to be sure, already messing around with other features of the Eye when the blackness got a little brighter, and then he was seeing the kitchen in the dim light of the clock above the stove. He jabbed the return key, feeling a prickling fear blossom across the back of his neck. The video played in real time, out onto the balcony, Toki in the chair, and then the light, and the _sound_...

After the Light spilled out, the audio feed had gone all screaming white noise. He quickly turned the laptop’s volume down to just a hiss, watched the rest of the footage, stunned and shaking, an excitement like cold, wet fingers pulling across his skin.

He had no idea what the name was, what the _names_ were, he had still woken up just after Abandon had stopped his heart, but he watched the Light form Toki’s mouth around them, and then the Light dimmed, and Toki was back. Offdensen turned the volume back up as the white noise died. Toki’s soft voice saying “Hads a bad dream, sorry to wakes you,” and then walking back out of the apartment, back to his own wing of Mordhaus, and Offdensen watched in first person as he returned to the bedroom, climbing in under the covers next to Quinn. His face was slack and lovely in sleep, a vicious collar of bruises around his neck.

Offdensen had to watch it again, selecting a point too far back in the footage. Quinn’s face was almost purple, his eyes beginning to bulge. Foster’s chest constricted as he watched Quinn suck in a breath and then scream, safe-wording out.

_“Do you want to know **his**?”_

It was the only word that was a sure way to bring either of them back from the brink. 

_“Chevalier!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing practically writes itself.
> 
> Nobody's gonna ever believe I've been planning this shit from the beginning... XDDD


	10. B1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There is something you are not telling them, because you fear it will make you appear mad."_

Quinn had adapted quickly and quite well to functioning as Offdensen’s security liaison. No full uniforms (flak jackets and M16s didn’t exactly spell ‘inconspicuous’), and a team of at least six, including himself and the assistant-of-the-week, were around Offdensen at all times during any public appearance. Currently, there was a semi circle of Klokateers on the sidewalk, waiting in a bizarre, dignitary version of a car-rider line outside the UN. 

From the edge of the security perimeter he heard, “Offdensen! _Offdensen!_ ” Quinn turned, Offdensen, himself, hearing Crozier but not acknowledging him. Crozier was breasted up against Four-Fifty, patient but persistent. “I’d like to have a word.” Offdensen gave a small affirmative nod, taking the coffee from his assistant as the car began to pull around to the main entrance, torches blazing. The other cars only had _flags_. Quinn gestured Crozier forward, standing back but keeping his presence obvious as Crozier approached. He watched Offdensen gnash his teeth before turning fully to meet Crozier, putting on his usual shit-eating public persona.

“General! It’s an honor.” Quinn knew from the throwing-shit-across-the-office fits that Offdensen would gladly dismember Crozier on the spot.

Crozier did not seem convinced. “Yes… I can’t say it wasn’t entertaining for me watching you squirm up there.”

“Oh, how kind of you, General.” Offdensen’s brows pulled down and he peeked over his shoulder again, glad to see the car pulling up, his assistant going to grab the door, leaving Quinn on point with Offdensen. “Was there anything else you’d like to add?”

Crozier grumbled something under his breath and then shook his head. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you should be wearing one of those Hoods, too.”

Quinn watched a wicked smile split the mouth that kissed him every morning and he knew that, if ever presented with the opportunity again, Offdensen would slaughter Crozier where he stood. “Oh, don’t misunderstand, General.” The assistant opened the door of the car for Offdensen, who sipped his coffee casually, sizing General Crozier up. It was the first time they had met face to face. Enough games. They had been fighting each other from behind closed doors for the last three years. “I may not wear the Hood, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still wear a mask.”

Offdensen turned and disappeared into the car, the assistant and Quinn quickly after him. The Klokateers converged around the sidewalk until the car was gone, blocking Crozier out, then dispersed to a separate vehicle to follow the car back to the airport.

Crozier was left on the sidewalk with his own small team of personnel, feeling the sting of a misaimed punch, sensing that he may have dealt himself more damage than his opponent. He had been so sure that leaking his true identity would have at least gotten him out of the way for a time, but like every other major fiasco with Dethklok, it had been silenced and buried at sea in an ocean of blood money. Crozier had been aware of Foster Johann Ovdenzen since just before the Troll incident in Finland, but Salacia had refused to let him present the information. It was only after Offdensen's troubling return that Crozier had felt it appropriate to leak the dossier to the media. Salacia had had no part in the decision.

It had been one of his last aces in the hole, but Falconback was still on track, and there was still no evidence that Offdensen was aware of anything significant regarding the project. The raid in Kazakhstan still presented some worrisome loose ends, but he was certain they posed no threats.

Back in the car, an uncomfortable silence had fallen, broken only by the quiet keyboard noises from Offdensen’s PDA. Quinn knew Foster was seething, but he didn’t dare prod or try to stifle it. He let him rage-work in peace.

“Can I ask about your brand?” The newest assistant--they had gone through three so far that month, he hadn’t even bothered to learn this one’s number yet--wasn’t exactly a Klokateer as far as Quinn was concerned. No brand, no oath, but he had been hired for his job skill (plucked off from the head of the aids at the Secretary of State’s office), not necessarily his dedication. It all served its own purpose in the end. After all, the Hood does not a Klokateer make. Nevertheless, Quinn humored him, leaning across the car and briefly letting him see the brand on the inside of his right arm, then lifting the edge of his Hood. Across the back of his neck and around the left side of his throat, fingers of flame were frozen in flesh, going up and ending just above the line of his jaw. An angry, tight scar. It was part of what made Offdensen so comfortable with Quinn; they both had quite a collection of past injuries, the records of which were written across their skin.

“I was hired at Level 2. There was a pyro accident at Wacken about eight years ago, a couple dozen people died. There were six of us that refused to be taken to the hospital until Dethklok finished their set. Master Offdensen offered us all jobs.” He didn’t miss the interest that had tightened Offdensen’s jaw, going through emails on his PDA. They had never talked about the first time they had met, the actual time; Quinn wasn’t sure he even remembered.

“I still don’t quite understand the levels. I only have Auxiliary Security Clearance.” Offdensen looked up for a moment, but decided to let Quinn continue to explain.

“Every Class-B-or-higher work-related injury qualifies you for a promotion. Level 3 are offered Service Enlistments, and Level 5 become eligible for Penta Squad. Level 6 is Full Security Clearance.”

A pause from the assistant. This was why Quinn couldn’t see him as a fellow Klokateer. He was in way over his head. “What, um, what level are you?”

A tiny smile under the Hood. “Seven.”

“Two-One-Five-Three-Seven, let’s not scare this one off, please?”

Quinn sat back, still grinning behind his Hood, muttering a quick “sorry, sir”.

When they arrived at the airport, the car pulled directly onto the tarmac and up to the plane, a chopper waiting with it. There was no press here to worry about, but they were still cautious during the swap, putting two men on the plane with five Klokateers and three in the chopper. Offdensen pulled the Hood back off once they were in the air, the thudding hum of the rotors bizarrely soothing. It had felt like a thick heartbeat all around him when he had returned to life.

The pilot and Quinn were the only others on board. This had not been an official part of the day’s itinerary. Offdensen made quick work of changing into more comfortable clothes, hanging the suit in a garment bag from the safety-line across the cabin of the helicopter. He could feel Quinn wanting to ask questions, sitting down next to him and laying a hand over his knee. “It’s time I took you to the Church. It’s time for you know a little more.”

The extent of Quinn’s knowledge of All of It was limited. He knew everything Offdensen knew about Project Falconback, which was unfortunately little, and he understood that there was a Tribunal which had been government funded at some point, if not currently, and that the assumption from this Tribunal was that Dethklok’s influence would destroy the world, but he didn’t know All of It. Not yet.

Once it was only the two of them in the small submersible, Quinn removed his Hood, still holding all of his nagging questions. He knew that what was not apparent would be explained to him if he needed to know. Typically meant to hold only one person, the journey in the pod was cramped, but thankfully not long. Foster had explained a bit of what to expect when they arrived, and Quinn was thankful. Had he stepped out into the mouth of the cave without much warning, he didn’t think he would have been able to not make a scene. The visual, alone, of the place was harrowing, wondrous, and somewhat sinister.

Foster led him up into the caves, through jagged tunnels, and out across a long, stone bridge. A channel of heat whipped Quinn's bronze hair up from his face as he stepped to the edge and looked over, the river of magma far below glowing bright yellow and orange. Foster let him take it all in for a moment, but the moment dragged on and on, and he could see Quinn shaking. Going to his side, he gently laid a hand against the small of his back. “You all right?”

“This is all very surreal and I’m kind of starting to freak out…”

Foster slipped the hand around Quinn’s waist, pulling him against his side. “We’re almost there. I promise, this is a safe place.”

Letting out a long sigh, Quinn gave him a resolute nod, putting his arm around Foster’s shoulders as they approached the enormous iron doors. Foster carefully pulled one of them open just wide enough for them to slip in through, shutting it again as they entered. Quinn walked to the edge of the entrance, looking down into the massive narthex of the Church, a watery, blue glow radiating from an arched opening at the back. He followed Foster down the stone stairway and across the wide, long hall, towards the blue light, and into the atrium.

There were robed figures crossing from the many halls leading into the main hub, a vaulted nature cave which had been fortified with man-made architecture. One of the figures noticed them, stopped, and smiled broadly. “Brother Foster!” In moments, any within earshot had converged around them, a jumbled welcome coming from a dozen or more of the Church members. Quinn huddled close to Foster, feeling particularly anxious. Foster greeted them all before asking them to please give Quinn a little space.

A middle-aged woman with long auburn hair looked Quinn up and down. “Nooo… this isn’t your soldier, is it?”

Quinn hissed out of the side of his mouth, in French, “ _They know who I am?_ ”

The Sister responded in English. “Of course we do. You are used to living among brethren sworn to die for Dethklok. Here, we find something to live for in the meantime.” She gently took Foster’s wrist, pushing his sleeve up and indicating the numerals tattooed under the crook of his elbow. “Privacy is a luxury, I understand, but when you know someone’s heart, it isn’t hard to see who it belongs to.”

There was something about being unhooded that made Quinn feel exceptionally vulnerable. It was strange enough having so many people see his face at once, much less being around anyone that knew about their relationship, or spoke so openly about it. Stranger, still, was the fact that when they had first met, Foster was practically an atheist. He appreciated now how slowly Foster had introduced him to all of this. Each time he thought he understood the extent of the unyielding darkness surrounding Dethklok, a new layer to the madness was revealed.

A younger man, not much older than Quinn, put a hand on both their shoulders, ushering them towards one of the long halls. “Father Meaddle is in meditation for now, but I assume you’d like to take our young soldier to the apse?”

“Yes, but, I’d like to take him alone.” The Brother nodded, understanding, leaving them be as Foster continued down the hallway they had been led into. Quinn stayed close, his legs beginning to feel weak under him as the hallway opened into another huge, vaulted cave, a torch-lit stone path through water leading to a large wall dotted with paintings that didn’t seem to be stable on the stone, perhaps projected from somewhere unseen. Looking up at the ceiling, however, he saw no lights indicating projection. Still, the images, growing clearer as they neared the wall, flickered and swam against the stone.

“What the fuck _is_ this…?”

Foster told him everything. Almost everything. All the bits that were certain, everything that had already come to pass, at least, and the parts that felt inevitable, and near.

Quinn had had to sit down, pressing his thumbs into his temples. Foster sat beside him, draping an arm around his back which Quinn thankfully leaned into. “This feels like too much… after everything in my own past, now this…” Quinn’s life before the Hood was still piecemeal, but to his credit, it was not all that much clearer even to himself. His mother, a French-Algerian, had dragged him from cult to cult through his life, a bizarre irony considering that she had been orphaned after the Order of the Dybbuks attack in Paris in 1973. His father, a Frenchman of Greek descent, Perseus Chevalier, had led one of the early cults she had found herself drawn to. He was a mystifier and alleged psychic similar to his contemporary, Uri Geller, perhaps possessing real power, but not an ounce of self-respect.

When his money-laundering and blatant trickery had been exposed, Genevieve had left Algeria and returned to Europe, settling in Estonia first, and changed her name. There had been four other cults after that, until they finally settled in the hippie commune in rural France where Quinn had toted an AK through pot fields and learned how to live in the wild on his own, should the need ever arise. He’d been sixteen when the compound was raided and his mother was killed.

“This is all fucking crazy…”

Foster embraced him, feeling Quinn shaking again. Hood on, he’d watched Quinn kill without breaking a sweat, he was quick on his feet and did not shy away from hard, often violent decisions. Hood off, it was easy to remember this was still only a young man in his twenties, with a hard enough past and struggling to accept such a future. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, truly. But this isn’t crazy.”

“I know…”

The sweep of robes against stone caught both of their attention, looking up as Ishnifus glided out of the small alcove at the far right of the apse, smiling benevolently. “It is a difficult truth to face, but it does not make it any less true, young warrior.” Quinn pulled himself together and then to his feet, greeting Ishnifus shyly. “Come, I have more we must discuss." He pointed to the tableau of two warring tribes, the Dethlights hovering in the sky above them. "The Israeli-Syrian concert is coming, and we must be prepared.”

Ishnifus led them back through the alcove, into a dim, cramped, overflowing library, frozen pools and rivers of wax flowing down from candles around the room. “Do you remember the DethWater suicides? Those who accepted to call to Go Into the Water? This event was not driven purely by fanatic obsession. This was the power of the Dethlights, the power of their Influence. We must harness this Influence again if we are to keep the Klok moving forward. We must help them invoke a time of Peace before the rest of the future we have left is lost to us.”

“How can we do that?” Quinn was beginning to wrap his head around this, trying to follow along, to force himself to accept it as the truth. After all, it was.

“Do not fear. I think I have a found a simple way for us to accomplish this Soothing.”

*****.

Looking down at the cities from the hovering platform, Nathan watched fires break out, herds of people running through the streets. The performance sequence was stalled, he didn’t know what was wrong, but they kept playing, like always, the rest of the band looping the intro as they waited for the holographic elements to engage. When the reactors finally hummed on, he was ready, repeating the words Offdensen had given him to greet the countries with over and over in his head.

“Hello, Israel and Syria!”

It was only a greeting in each country's language, but they both translated to essentially the same meaning.

' _As-salam alaykum_

__...and..._ _

_**Shalom**!_ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person to make a Hozier joke wins a free groan from yours truly. (But feel free to cackle with me that Quinn is a baby with a man's heart. (He's... a _warrior_...))
> 
> Footnote: I am endlessly grateful to my two winning runs of National Novel Writing Month to be able to realize that the pace I've been cranking this baby out at isn't even *fast* for me. If only I (or ANY writers these days, yeesh) could make writing pay the bills, I'd be fuckin' golden.
> 
> And one final note, high-five if you immediately started humming/singing/brain-playing 'The Galaxy' at the end of this chapter. (Double-high-five if you just started actually playing it, just to complete the vibe. (*is definitely playing it now*))


	11. Go Into the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And they returned to the darkest depths to sink even lower..."_

“Master, I am concerned for what the near future holds. The Dethklok album is due to be shipped in only a few weeks' time, but the omen that the Ocean shall claim its debt is clear enough. Without the revenue from the album pouring into Falconback, our opportunities to function in secret may be compromised.”

The silence from Salacia stretched, Orlaag waiting impatiently for a response. When it came, it was no surprise.

“We will allow these ships to set sail... Dethklok must return to the water...”

*****.

As Offdensen prepared for the album's release, it had become apparent that Quinn’s knee was an issue. They needed each other in top condition, and with his safety not of concern for the time being, Offdensen had granted Quinn medical leave and scheduled him for surgery. The procedure itself was simple enough, but the recovery and physical therapy required after was a slow process that had Quinn bored out of his mind, laid up most days in their apartment, reading or playing video games and generally ravaged by cabin fever. After the first several weeks, when he was well enough to travel, Foster had taken him back to the Church. They had brought him back from the brink of death, had healed wounds that should have left him far more impaired than his eye. He knew with their soothing, Quinn could be back on his feet soon enough.

With the current reign of peace in the Middle East, radiating out to the rest of the world, Ishnifus’ simple solution had bought them some time, freeing up energy to put towards preparing for what would come next. Over the months following the Israeli-Syrian concert, Foster had taken Quinn with him on each return to the Church, and Ishnifus had been introducing the Klokateer slowly to the Brotherhood while Foster worked to integrate the Mordhaus Mainframe with the Church. It was imperative that he had full access to security feeds and comm-units at all times. There was only so much the Oculus could handle, and Ishnifus had taken well to using the small console to contact him when needed, making the trips back and forth to the Church less necessary.

Quinn had found himself feeling quite comfortable among the Brotherhood, especially after it was revealed to him that the Church had been an integral part of the Klokateers from the beginning. Nearly all of the Medic Class were members. The Brotherhood even had their own brand, a Gear within a Gear, as well as their own traditional rite of passage tattooing, which was personal and unique to each initiate. Just as Sister Harrenzor had told him on their first meeting, the Church strove to find something to live for while they waited for the Klok to wind down to the final hour. The tattoos among them represented children, family, hometowns, a favorite childhood summer, departed loved ones… or, like Foster’s, a partner.

Assured that no commitment would be expected of him until if and when he was ready to take his vows, Quinn had seized the opportunity while healing to acclimate himself to the Church, sitting in meditation (typically a dark, candle-lit room of people laid out on mats blaring Dethklok, then journaling their associations after) or rifling through the library, picking the brains of the other members and exploring the caves and small, rocky islands above the ocean’s surface.

He had dealt with enough false-hope and prophecy in his life, it was hard for him to invest too much at once, but he trusted Foster unquestioningly, and was doing his best to catch up. When Ishnifus had first discussed beginning his initiation, Quinn’s knee-jerk reaction was to refuse, but Foster and the other Church members had assured him that while the process was difficult, it was ultimately a very positive experience. The ceremony was modest--a concoction of indigenous, entheogenic plants was taken three times; the first to cleanse the spirit, the second to introduce oneself fully to the Spirit World, and the third to bring back messages.

He had been warned that the first time was the worst, that it was primarily painful and uncomfortable, but that the effects only lasted roughly an hour before it was all kaleidoscopes and radiant visions.

Ishnifus had brewed and blessed the tincture for him--a blend that produced a trance state similar to yopo, the plants used containing all the same chemical components--and prayed over him while he got it all down. Once he had weathered through the first twenty minutes of vertigo and nausea and vomited until he was dry heaving, Ishnifus left him with Foster to journey through the rest.

They laid in the small bed Quinn had been given for his stay, one of the few single-occupant dormitories. Foster sat with his back against the headboard, Quinn’s head cradled in his lap, the younger man’s face pressed into his stomach, tears dampening the front of Foster's t-shirt and arms wrapped tightly around his waist, squeezing whenever another wave of pain tore through him. Foster smoothed his hair and let him ride through it. It seemed to be different for each person, but painful every time, both physically and emotionally. Quinn had gone through three crying jags, unable to speak in full sentences, but imparting that it felt like being dope-sick and on fire at the same time. Foster could relate: his own maiden voyage had felt like having his face beaten in while being thrown from a moving car. He had been certain his brain was swelling and he would die before he could make it through the ordeal.

“Fuck… thinkin’ about shit… haven’t thought about in years…” It came out in broken English, half French. Foster let out an empathetic sigh, leaning down to kiss Quinn’s shoulder.

“I know… it will dredge up things you’ve left buried. When I first took it, I saw all the people I’ve killed in my life. Even logically justified, I’ve still carried that guilt. And then I saw you. I was so ashamed I had never been honest with you. It’s why I couldn’t keep pretending anymore when I came back.”

Quinn’s fingers sneaked beneath Foster’s shirt, stroking up and down the valley at the small of his back. “ _Petites grâces…_ ”

He fell silent and Foster dabbed with a damp cloth at the cold sweat beading his face, knowing there was little he could do but sit through it with him and hope the agony would break soon. At length, Quinn’s shaking subsided, and finally he rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes all pupil. “I think it’s been an hour…”

Foster chuckled softly, combing his fingers through Quinn’s hair. “Just enjoy it. If you see anything significant or have any realizations, you can try and describe it and I’ll help you remember later.” Ishnifus had done the same for him, which had been mildly embarrassing when one of the things he had screamed in the middle of the trance was that he wished he could make love to Quinn again. Ishnifus, bless him, was not ruffled in the slightest.

Quinn was quiet for the most part, occasionally giving a short description of the landscapes from his childhood across Europe, or the smell of his mother’s hair. Foster watched him stare off into space, knowing that it was only his body that still tethered him to the physical world. He had fallen still and seemed to be coming down when he startled Foster, a hand shooting out and grabbing him by the wrist. “What? What is it, are you all right?”

Quinn was taut as a bowstring, squeezing his eyes shut. “I just became very, very aware that we’re at the bottom of the ocean right now.”

Foster tried to hold it back, but a loud laugh burst out of him, taking Quinn’s hand between his own and kissing at the long, slender fingers. “Yes, we are. But we’re safe here. This is the safest place we can be.”

Quinn’s eyes opened again, the gold returning. “I know I’m safe here.” Foster had the distinct impression he did not only mean the Church. Quinn relaxed, offering a few more small descriptions, primarily visions of the sea, of being on top of the waves on a calm day, before drifting into sleep. Foster slid carefully out from under him, pulling a blanket up to his chin and leaving a candle burning for him if he woke up.

“Well? How did our young warrior do?” Ishnifus was barely visible behind the mountain range of tomes set out on the library’s heavy, stone table.

“Very well. Nothing too, ah, exciting, but he seemed comfortable with the… out of body experience.”

“You said he has been near-death before, yes? You and I know very well that the trance is far more welcoming than that.” Foster nodded, pulling up a chair beside the priest. He was reading a seventeenth century history of Mediterranean weather patterns. Glancing through the titles, it seemed most of the books related to ocean currents and climate. He needn’t ask his question. “I fear the album will not survive from shore to shore. The Prophecy is becoming clearer.

_And the Ocean was at once the destroyer and the savior._

Something momentous awaits the record’s fate.”

“I hear the whales at night.”

“Yes, and they are calling each other to action. The time may be closer than we thought, the Congregation may be very near at hand.”

*****.

“I think I’ve found something.” Quinn was nearly done with his leave and had been making the most of his time at the Church, especially with the album now a part of the ocean and the whales singing loudly each night. He was woken often with a buzzing in his skull, the deep, long-range vibrations easily moving even through the stone of the caves. He had kept in touch with Foster through the Mainframe console.

“I was thinking about the raid in Kazakhstan, at the Bigach crater? You said Crozier took the ore, correct? Mined materials?”

“Yes, the only things taken were the metals and minerals from the mines under the crater.”

“Right. I started looking into meteorites--sightings, ancient observations, geology--and found that meteorite impacts can compress silica and form stishovite. Very rare, has experimental and controversially-applied conductive properties. Stishovite was used in some of the prototypes for the Hadron Collider. It’s typically formed in high concentrations of quartz, so it’s plausible with the area around Bigach.”

“You’re saying the Tribunal is trying to create dark matter?”

“Perhaps. The research on its application is minimal and inconclusive. The use of stishovite was abandoned in the early phases of the LHC's development. There’s more, though. Bigach’s impact was pre-historic, but I found accounts of similar meteorites, likely from the same comet's debris path--the Nile’s comet--that in the early decline of Sumer were documented quite well. I’m still working on translating the entire text, it’s slow going, but… it sounds silly saying it out loud, it might be nothing… A large meteorite was seen over most of the Mediterranean and broke up in the atmosphere. Pieces fell across Europe, Northern Africa, and several fragments were responsible for deaths in Mesopotamia. It was regarded as the omen which signaled the end of their empire. What struck me, though, is what the Sumerians _called_ them.”

Foster listened patiently, wearing his usual stoic mask. When Quinn paused, he nodded. “Yes?”

“The Falcons.”

The mask slipped and Quinn could see Foster thinking very hard, putting pieces together to see what fit. “Have you spoken with Ishnifus about this?”

“Not yet. I’ve only just started piecing it together.”

“Tell him, see what he can add. How soon can you have a report summary ready?”

“Within the hour. Should I forward it to Jomfru?”

Foster paused again, finally shaking his head. “No. I’ll give it to him myself if and when I feel it’s necessary. There is still so little we’ve pulled from the drive, I need him focused.”

“Yes, sir.” There was an odd pause where neither of them were sure if they were done being Commander and soldier. Quinn broke the scene first. “I miss you.”

Foster’s face relaxed, his head tilting slightly. “I miss you, too. We launch in two days, and you should be ready to return to active duty by the time we’re docked in the Crevice.” His phone began to ring and he let out an irritated scoff. “Is that all? I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“Yes, that’s all… Actually! Quickly, I just… thought it was odd. I went to the surface yesterday and… the air. It tasted like blood. Metallic, I mean.”

Foster let the call go to voicemail, frozen. He had never felt so far away from Quinn, the distance alarming him for the first time. “It’s starting, then. It’s almost time.”

“What’s going to happen, Foster?”

“I wish I knew… send me the report, keep yourself safe. I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took its sweet time getting hammered out for as short as it is. Some of it is genuine research, some fabrication.


	12. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Does this sound to you like it's a clue?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't see any use going back over the events of _Doomstar Requiem_. They are unchanged in this series, you've all seen it.

Seeing Foster cry had been the hardest part. Five years and he’d never seen more than his jewel-green eyes well up, but this was no surge of emotion, this was a storm. Quinn held him through all of it, and the weeks to follow.

He’d had to drag him off 69272, in the wrong place at the wrong time after the disaster that was the Final Feast. All Quinn had gotten out of him was “Pickles quit” as Offdensen strode jerkily down the hall and then 69272 had tried to give his report of the sub’s status as the Commander boarded the ship and Offdensen had lost it, fists on face and blood so strong it burned Quinn’s nostrils when he finally started screaming Foster’s name and hauled him off of the Klokateer, catching an elbow to the jaw.

Offdensen had collected himself more sloppily than Quinn had ever seen, and Nathan had walked in on them fucking in Foster’s office once (he had graciously pretended to not have seen a single thing and insisted he’d forgotten what he’d come to talk about, excusing himself quickly) but this was a mask worn poorly, askew. “Congratulations, Klokateer.” He’d checked the number stitched into the edge of the Hood. “Welcome to Level 4. It includes an extra two weeks of sick leave, which, ah, I'd suggest you make effective immediately.”

Quinn had called a medic for the Klokateer and hurried after Foster, making a beeline for his office. When Quinn had gotten in after him, he had had to duck lamps and a stereo, boxes of files and decanters of scotch, shattering against the steel walls. When he’d finally fought his way close enough, locking his arms around Foster, the older man had crumbled. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Quinn wondered the same thing, holding him until he had cried himself out, and continued to do so over the next long stretch of unimaginable strain. When it came down to the final decision, Quinn had only asked that Foster let him take leave first.

“If I leave my post, they’ll find me-- _both_ of us--and they will kill me.” He had kept the more radical side of the Hood from Foster, but he couldn’t now, not with both their lives on the line. When asked how he knew the other Penta Squad members would take such a drastic measure, he replied simply, “I’ve done it before.”

Foster had forged a few documents and changed a few values in a spreadsheet, and when he came down from the snow-covered hills, Quinn was waiting with the Indian's engine idling. Foster had let Quinn drive, wrapping his arms tightly around the slim waist and burying his face against his shoulder.

Quinn had thought they would go to the Church first, but Foster balked, unable to face more responsibility just yet. They had made their way south and stayed in Europe for a few days, hiding out in backwater hostels and even an abandoned lake house before Foster had turned the Oculus back on and gotten in touch with Ishnifus. He could not have been more timely in establishing contact. Salacia was due to make an appearance in Florence; he was known mysteriously simply as the Tithing Man by the Catholic Church, his anonymity respected only because of the weighty sum he provided to the Vatican each quarter. Quinn was already on his laptop, virtually scouting out a good place to watch the entrance of the baptistery through satellite photos as he listened to Foster’s side of the conversation.

From Bucharest, the drive took only a single hard day, crossing the Arno at sunset and finding an abandoned second floor above an antiques shop that only opened on weekends during the tourist season. Quinn set up quickly, making maps and three different plans in case all hell broke lose. “There’s a short press release from the Vatican, he’ll be part of a small group of donors arriving just after noon.” Between the two of them, they could decipher nearly any European publication, Quinn still fluent enough in Italian and Russian to get by, a carry-over from being dragged from one cult to another across the continent. Danish had been his fifth tongue. “They’ll come to the baptistery doors, right to the front.” A few blocks down at the piazza, police were already marking off a perimeter. “The shops along the plaza will be open, I can stake out here,” he pointed to a cafe’s veranda on the screen, “and you can wait here,” he indicated the street a block down and just around the corner from the Piazza San Giovanni.

“You do not engage.”

Quinn turned around, raising a brow. “You think I want to die? Of course not.” He pulled a small case from his bag and opened it, pulling out the spy glasses that were still a bit of a prototype, set up with the Oculus interface. He powered them on and watched the system boot up over the right eye-piece, then placed them gently on his face. It took him a few tries to control the on-screen commands, then dialed out to Foster. “You see me?”

Foster answered the video chat and grinned. “Knew I married you for a reason…”

“You bet your ass.” Quinn returned to the screen, making a few more notes. “I can observe them from there, with you watching from down the street. If I feel it’s safe enough to move in, I can even get a decent view from the basilica, only the baptistery will be closed to the public for the benediction.” He turned to grin at Foster again over his shoulder, and it was strange to see himself from Quinn’s viewpoint in one eye. “I, uh, snuck up into the choir balcony when I was young. There’s a view straight down to the baptistery. I think I remember how to get up there.”

Once the plan was set, they did their best to get some sleep. Quinn was up with the sun, lying awake with Foster against his chest, sliding his fingers through hair that was just beginning to go silver, a few strands here and there betraying his age. He had to tell himself over and over, this was only intelligence-gathering, in a crowded city full of tourists around one of the largest attractions in the region. Everything would be fine, and yet his heart still flopped fitfully as he reviewed the plan in his mind. Reykjavik had been crowded, too.

At noon, he was sitting down at a table hardly a hundred feet away from the basilica's circular annex, sipping coffee that had gone cold while waiting for the perfect vantage point to free up, having been occupied by a group of Japanese tourists. The small earpiece crackled and then Foster’s voice came through. “The convoy is heading your way. Are you ready?”

“As I’m gonna be…”

The first several cars were boring, dignitaries and corporate moguls in suits that were too ill-fitted for their ridiculous price-tags. Quinn had been on the DethSub during the attack and had only seen one blurry photo of Salacia. When a large man with long, white hair stepped out of a standard-issue Mercedes, his back tensed, making sure he had a clear view with the glasses.

“Is that him?”

Offdensen was glad for the full facemask, closing his left eye and watching the feed from Quinn’s glasses. “Yes… yes, it’s him.” Quinn made a move to stand, casually pulling out his wallet to pay for the cafe au lait. As he was watching across the square, another figure stepped out of the car.

A bolt of icy lightning struck him and the feed cut quickly to Quinn racing back into the cafe and through the kitchen, out towards the alley. “Abort, abort!”

“What’s wrong, what’s happened?” All the same Foster was already pulling back onto the boulevard and slinging the bike into the alley as Quinn was coming out the back through the kitchen door. Quinn ran to the bike and tossed his leg over the back, letting out in a rush, “I’ve been compromised.”

Foster held his questions until they were back at the hideout, but Quinn was not prepared to share, insisting they get as far from Florence as they could. When Foster had tried to ask why, he backed down at the sight of Quinn in such a tailspin, shoving the laptop into his bag and quickly packing their rucksack. They drove east until sundown and found a decent hostel, paying in cash with something extra to get a private room and have no questions asked.

Once they were settled inside, Quinn continued to put a finger up for Foster to wait, his shaking hands working carefully to calm, pulling up the Oculus interface and tracking back through the footage. He went back too far, replayed Salacia stepping out and entering the building, and then the second man left the car. As he came fully into view and turned to face across the square, just before Quinn had pulled the plug, he paused the video, handing the tablet to Foster. “I know who this man is. I’m so sorry… I have to tell you everything.”

He sighed heavily and Foster set the tablet aside, taking both of Quinn’s hands in his, worried. Quinn’s jaw quivered and he swallowed thickly. “It’s time you truly knew the man you married… starting with my real name.”

*****.

“Lucien Quentin de la Croix, formerly Chevalier.” Orlaag handed the photo to Salacia reverently; a small group of people, mostly women and children, the woman closest to a marginally younger looking Orlaag wearing a sleeveless sundress, two bands of what looked to be lace tattooed around her upper arms. “I had thought him to be dead, Master. My deepest apologies.”

Salacia reviewed the photo and paid particular attention to the young boy standing in front of the tattooed woman before handing the photo back. “He was a part of an early project of mine, just before I came to work for you. A leftover from the Soviet Psi-Ops project. We functioned within a small cult, they called themselves the Order of the White Cross. The cult itself was harmless if not cumbersome, and it made it easy to conduct the experiments. The children were dosed with psychedelics and hallucinogens, some went so irreversibly mad, three children were later found drowned grasping onto each other in a nearby river. The project was not without merit, however. In fact, it was de la Croix’s visions that located you, Master.”

Orlaag waited patiently for a response before determining there would be none, pressing on. “The cult was dissolved soon after the second wave of deaths and I had a team of my men storm the compound where de la Croix and his mother had moved to just outside Colmar, France, several years later. Everyone was killed. The boy must have gotten away somehow. But, Master, I believe our work has just become more intriguing.” He pulled another photo from his robes and handed it just as reverently to Salacia, a CCTV still of Offdensen at a press conference, and the Klokateer that had been his security detail for the last two years, before the bodyguard had begun to wear a jacket during public appearances, presumably to cover any identifying marks--he had two bands of lace tattooed around his biceps. “I believe this man is Lucien de la Croix. If he is involved with Dethklok, especially if he retains any real knowledge of the experiments, the coming events will prove most interesting.”

Salacia’s hands flexed against the stone of his chair--a throne, truly--and relaxed at length. “We must observe him closely… the time has come to strike, we cannot allow him to intervene.”

*****.

“His name is Vater Orlaag, and he makes Rasputin look like a birthday party magician. I don’t know his first name or if Orlaag is even his real surname. I’m skeptical at this point if he even has any real affiliation with the Church. It wasn’t until the second initiation that I’ve given any of this much thought at all, I wasn’t lying to you when I said I don’t remember a lot of my early childhood. I did omit some of it, though… Orlaag was the head of the Estonian cult, the Order of the White Cross. Until my second initiation, I knew what had happened only because I’d been told: the cult was using the children to try and contact the spirits, or the gods, or _something_ … nine of them died before my mother took me and left. It’s only been in the last few weeks that I’ve started to actually remember some of it.”

Foster pursed his lips, feeling suspicion creep up his spine for the first time with Quinn. “You didn’t tell me you’d completed your next initiation.”

“It’s been a weird month.”

“Touché.”

“I haven’t recalled much. Bits and pieces, but… I haven’t understood until now, until seeing him, that all of it is connected. The Order, the Church--both of them--, the Prophecy…”

The tingle left him and Foster wrapped his arms around Quinn, seeing that he needed it. “What next, then?”

“What else? We go back to the Church." Quinn rested his chin on Foster's shoulder, the resignation settling in with the exhaustion. "It’s time I took my vows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, can anybody tell that my absolute last resort, Plan Z, subsection 13, is to start a cult? I mean… just… um, just kidding… >>;
> 
> If any of this is mind-boggling, I promise it will all make sense in time. I'm taking a page from Small's book; the long-game really is the best way to go about this. Also, I'v tricked the time-line just a smidge. Let's say the time between Offdensen resigning and the boys entering the Depths of Humanity is about a week, hmm? Sound good?


	13. Mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle won, a war just beginning.

The atrium was buzzing with voices, packed cheek-by-jowl with Brothers of the Black Klok. Quinn’s clothes were still damp from having to free-dive down to release the submersible’s anchor at the dock. A tight, terrible knot yanked at his guts. He knew something was wrong. “Brother Foster!” A monk hurried through the crowd to them, his face ashy, dark circles under his eyes. “Oh thank the Light, you’re all right! We were just about to go to the surface. We must pray under the Star. Father Ishnifus contacted us hardly half an hour ago, the band has made its approach on the Depths of Humanity.”

Sister Harrenzor had grabbed Quinn and hurried with him off to the dormitories to get him into some clean, dry robes. They found each other again in the frantic stream down the hallway, Foster now in a pair of robes, as well, a length of prayer beads that Ishnifus had given him looped around one wrist -- meteorite chunks polished to a shining black. His hand found Quinn’s and they followed the flow of people climbing up through the caves to the surface, gathering around the glowing pentacle formed in the sharp volcanic rocks, a thick layer of silica melted to form a sheet of solid glass, letting the fire beneath glow up through the sacred design. The climb had left them all out of breath and their panting harmonized with the the fretful crash of waves against the shore, like black daggers spearing up through the water.

Once everyone was settled, seated around the pentacle, Father Friedman stepped somberly into the glowing circle, pacing it slowly, looking at his Brothers around him. He was the presiding priest in Ishnifus’ absence, and the weight of that knowledge was visible on his thin shoulders. “We wait for the Star to turn to Blood. There is nothing we can do to stop it, as it must come to pass, as it already has. Let us chant. Let us raise power and pray for the safety of the band, of the Lights.”

Quinn was feeling like his skin didn’t quite fit, as if he should run, like he didn’t belong here, but when Foster’s clear voice joined the chant beside him, he relaxed, pulling the other’s hand to his lips to kiss, and began to sing.

The sea air was cold, the wind vicious, but they chanted on. The vibrations were palpable, shaping the air around them, a trance state conjured up from the ancient words and binding each of them together around the pentacle, the Star rising ever slowly towards its zenith. Quinn had opened his eyes briefly and Taurus had hung over them. What had seemed like only a few rounds of the chant passed, but when he opened his eyes again, the Star was at the circle’s center, the light bathing them all in blue, turning the sea of robes to a blood-drenched black.

His voice trailed off to silence as he watched the Star. Something was changing. The churning blue gasses were growing faster, spinning in swirls and angry flares, growing brighter, stronger. He noticed the now evident silence next to him and turned to watch Foster slowly take his glasses off, tucking into into the small inner pocket of the robes. “...Foster?” The hand in his felt cool and dry, compared to his own dripping sweat between them. “What’s wrong, are you--”

A rippled gasp stopped the chant abruptly, and a scorching red light forced all in attendance to cover their eyes, the spray of the sea waves cast crimson as it broke against the shore around them. It smelled of salt, and metal, and blood. Quinn squeezed his eyes shut, shielding his face behind the wide sleeve of the robes, and felt Foster’s hand tugging at his own. He squinted past the blazing starlight, expecting to see Foster standing, but his feet were not touching the ground. Quinn got quickly to his feet, not letting go of him, transfixed as he watched the other rise slowly, limp, as if lifted into the air by unseen hands. He kept rising and rising, and Quinn felt hot tears sting at his eyes as he was lifted beyond his grip, on his toes and Foster’s hand sliding out of his own. He clutched at his chest, not knowing what else to do, watching as Foster rose until the edge of his robes were just out reach, and the Star dimmed. The others had not noticed the floating man amongst them, save for those most immediately around him. The other Brothers were gazing now at the Star, turned to Blood. As Quinn gazed up at him the silhouette of Foster was cast against the Star, haloed around his head.

The brilliant white light that poured forth next did not emanate from the sky, but from Foster. Eyes and mouth, just as he had described his dreams about the Lights, streaming out of him as another surge of strong waves crashed violently against the rocks, and the spray of them created a dome to reflect the light, a bizarre planetarium, and the light began to change.

The other initiates understood, knew this was very much like the Eye of the Whale, but Quinn was not yet a full member. He watched, stunned, as the Light radiating from Foster played like a film projected against the spray of the waves: Ishnifus, crucified, eviscerated. A ripple of screams pulsed through the crowd. The band lowering Toki and Abigail down, bloody and haggard. The Assassin, wielding a long, terrible blade. Another startled gasp coursed through the Brothers as sound now issued from the very mist around them.

_“You… took my brother from me…”_

_“Well we’d rather burn in Hell than let you take ours.”_

A raucous cry split the air, victory in wordless screams. It suddenly felt like being back in a pit. The others watched and cheered as the Lights took over, consumed the band, lifted them up as it had lifted Foster, and then consumed and _destroyed_ the Assassin. The waves calmed, the Light from Foster dimmed and he began to drift back down. Quinn was ready under him as he was returned to the earth, scooping him up and holding him close, his body still limp. When the invisible force let go and his full weight was now resting in Quinn’s arms, he jerked awake, startling and throwing his arms around Quinn’s neck to steady himself. “What--” But he knew. He didn’t bother finishing the question, the knowledge was there. He made himself focus, shaking the foggy feeling from his mind, and looked at Quinn. “They did it…”

Quinn gave him a small smile. “Did you ever doubt them?”

He placed Foster carefully back on his feet, but didn’t let go, arms still looped around him. Foster gave a tired laugh, shaking his head. “Not for a second.” He looked around at the other Brothers, embracing in joy and grief all at once. Ishnifus had honored his vows, the immediate danger was no more, but all the same, the Church was now without its High Holy Priest, and a Brother they all thought of as a dear friend and guide. Foster cupped Quinn’s face, kissing him gently. “We have to return to Mordhaus.”

“But I thought--”

“Please just trust me.”

A long sigh, but the tension left him in it. “I always do.”

*****.

One of the Brothers -- both of the Church and of the Hood -- had a chopper waiting in another port from Quinn and Foster’s usual rendezvous point. They stuffed the three of themselves into the small pod and made the journey there, Foster clearly happy to be back in the air once the rotors were beating and lifting them up off the ground. He liked to be up high, in a place from which he could cast a watchful eye over everything below. He encouraged to the point of demanded that Quinn get some sleep, the other dozing off as best he could, refusing to let go of Foster’s hand. When they reached Mordhaus, Offdensen instructed the pilot to take them in through the barracks, he and Quinn pulling on fatigues and Hoods and quickly making their way to the secret passages up to Offdensen’s wing.

The boys weren’t there, not yet. He had contacted Four-Fifty on the flight in and had her meet them in his office, getting all the details. Toki and Abigail had been rushed to the nearest hospital, and while Abigail was weak, dehydrated, and in need of antibiotics, Toki’s wounds had festered and he had been rushed into surgery to properly piece him back together. That had been a few hours ago, but there was still no word on his condition.

“You’re not going. We’ll wait until he’s out of surgery, at the very least. There’s nothing you can do for him that the doctors aren’t already doing.” Quinn had stepped into the office, unhooded, and Four-Fifty turned, recognizing the voice. She had never seen his face.

“Frenchie?!” The Penta Squad all had nicknames for each other. Four-Fifty was Eve; she had been the first female Penta Squad member. Quinn’s cheeks went rosey for a brief second and he nodded. Four-Fifty only looked between them and lifted one shoulder like an arched brow, noting softly to Offdensen, “you’re welcome,” before excusing herself with a nod.

Somehow, Quinn had coaxed Foster into a shower, and then to bed. He stroked his hair and sang to him softly, all the old folk songs his mother had used as lullabies for him, and watched him sleep fitfully through the night, haunted by the images of the Light pouring from him, of his body suspended in air. He knew there was no use worrying, they were in the thick of it now and no way out but through, but all the same… he worried far more for Foster than he ever would for himself.

Sometime just after dawn, Quinn succumbed to exhaustion and Foster slipped out of bed, leaving him to rest. There was plenty of work to be done and his mind was a jumbled, loud mess. Only the Klokateer that had piloted them home, Four-Fifty, and One-Six-Sixty-Six knew he had returned. An eerie calm had settled over Mordhaus. No TVs playing in the common room. No crinkle of chip-bags or smell of burning plastic coming from the kitchen. The few Klokateers going robotically through their daily tasks in the large home did so in a solemn silence.

There was so much spread out over so many sectors, but he could sense that they all tied together, that they could all be thread through the same needle and used to suture the gaping wound that was the current situation, as a whole. Sitting at his office with his current journal in front of him, he thought of Quinn asleep in the other room, thankful to know at least that was one thing still on a steady course. He took a deep breath, and with that anchoring his thoughts, he began to figure out how everything pieced together.

*****.

Four-Fifty popped her head into the office, mid-afternoon, knocking on the open doorjam. “Sir, your transport is ready.”

Offdensen was hunched over the laptop, the plan still a skeletal outline, but coming together. He had decided against a suit, he’d worn them long enough, settled at his desk in jeans and a Henley, barefoot under the desk. “Hmm? Oh, good, thank you. Is Quinn awake?”

“Is that what you call him?” He could tell, like always, that she was smiling. She leaned in the doorway and crossed her arms, gloved hands wrapped loosely around scarred biceps. He had never asked her about the patterned scars. The nature of them made it unnecessary to need to. “I’m not sure, should I check in on him for you?”

“No, no, I’ll go wake him. Thank you, Four-Fifty, that will be all.”

“Yes… Commander? Can I still call you that?”

Offdensen sighed and gave her a weak smile, closing the laptop and walking across the office towards her. She looked down at his bare toes, shaking her head. He shrugged. “Yes. I… I’m still working out the details, but as long as I’ve lost no trust among the Klokateers, I will still be acting as Commander.”

“You haven’t lost an ounce, I assure you.” She gave him her usual respectful nod and headed back out of the wing, Offdensen crossing the hall to his apartment. Quinn was indeed awake, the sound of the shower confirming such. Offdensen pulled on a pair of boots and a jacket, walking into the bathroom and looking at himself, realizing that even for him, it was odd to see himself not in a suit, or wearing glasses with hair slicked back and clean-cut. He at least felt the stubble should go, shaving quickly while Quinn finished up in the shower, stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist.

“Master Wartooth is awake?” He brushed through his wet hair and began to towel it dry.

Foster shook his head. “Not awake, but out of surgery and stable, since late this morning. I’m about to go, I can wait if you want to get dressed and come with me?”

“I… I mean, I’m still your security detail, aren’t I?”

Foster smiled, laying a hand against Quinn’s hip. “You’re still my _husband_ and I’d like you to be there with me.”

“You know, as much shit as I’ve talked about the institution of marriage…” he leaned in, Foster meeting him halfway for a slow kiss, “I really love the way that sounds.”

Foster waited for him while he dressed and braided his damp hair, stopping him when he went to pull a Hood from the dresser drawer. “Wait… I know you’ve got your reservations, but… things have gotten so crazy, so… huge… I don’t want to hide you anymore. I think they should know.”

Quinn took a long moment to consider his options, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. At length, he finally put it back in the drawer. “OK. I’ll um… take your lead. But you realize you’re about to put me in front of my -- understatement of the century -- favorite band, as what will feel to me like being naked, right? I mean, not like I haven’t already broken a thousand for you, but… that’s a major oath fucked right there, to show them my face.” He paused, looking over Foster, no glasses and no product in his hair, no suit… a flash of chest hair peeking out of the collar of his shirt. “You’re going like that?”

Foster shrugged, nodding. “I’m not resuming my role as manager, I think I’m going to have a bonfire with the damn suits.”

Quinn chuckled and they walked together down to the courtyard, boarding the chopper. 

When they arrived at the hospital, there was already a small team of Klokateers waiting, escorting both of them up to the wing that had been cleared out and secured for Toki. Quinn could feel the glares from behind the Hoods, but he did his best to ignore them, trusting Foster to make this most heinous of oath-breaking meaningful somehow. At least at Offdensen’s side, he knew he was safe.

They reached the room, the soft tone of Toki’s heartbeat measured out by one of the multiple machines monitoring him. Quinn stopped a few doors down, quickly taking a chair. “I think I’m going to wait here…”

Foster didn’t argue, continuing on and standing outside the door, his chest constricting to see Toki ghostly pale, looking as small as a child in the hospital gown. He stood there for nearly a full minute before Murderface noticed him, shoving his chair back as he stood up, breaking the rest of the band out of their reveries, watching Toki… sleep? Drift? And hurried over to Offdensen, crushing him in a tight hug. Offdensen gave into it, pressing his palms against Murderface’s back. “What the fuck, man, it’sch good to schee you....”

“It’s, ah, good to see you boys, too.” He was passed off to Pickles, who wouldn’t let go for a long moment before finally backing off and drying his eyes quickly. “How is he?”

Skwisgaar answered from his seat by the bed, leaned forward, elbows-to-knees, a dour look on his symmetrical face. “How’s the fucks it looks like he ams?”

Offdensen moved further into the room, Nathan stepping aside to let him stand at the foot of the bed, reaching out a large hand to squeeze the back of his neck fondly. “Hey, Charles…”

Offdensen pat Nathan’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy…” They stood around Toki in an eerie likeness to standing over a grave. Offdensen shuddered and Nathan dropped his hand, turning towards the door.

“C’mon, I’ll give you the rundown.” There was a softness brought on by exhaustion in his voice which harkened back to a younger Nathan that Offdensen barely remembered, but found he had strangely missed. He hated they were meeting again under such circumstances. He walked out into the hall with Nathan and they stood facing each other, arms crossed, their usual conversation posture. “You look fuckin’ weird like this… like… I dunno… a real-fuckin’-dude.”

“You mean not a robot?” he asked, even as the Oculus politely engaged a prompt to let him know this was Nathan Explosion.

The briefest smile tightened Nathan’s mouth. “Yeah… Look, doc says he’ll pull through, they had to remove, like, ten person of his small, or… upper… some kind of intestine. The infection was pretty bad, but they’ve got him on the good stuff and he’s probably only under right now from the drugs. But I’m worried about, like… you know, I mean…”

“You’re worried about the psychological damage?”

“Mm.”

“So am I.” Nathan’s arms uncrossed and he moved in slow for his hug, Offdensen having to meet him halfway, resting his cheek against Nathan’s solid shoulder. It felt good to have them welcome him back like this. He had been wary they would feel betrayed that he had left. “Look, Toki, he, ah, needs his rest. You think you can convince the others to leave their posts for a while? Let me buy you boys some lunch?” Nathan nodded. “Good. I’ll be waiting for you down at the helipad, we’ve got a chopper waiting.”

Nathan went back into the room and Offdensen strode down the hall, taking Quinn’s hand as the other stood. “Well?”

“He’s pretty rough, but, he’ll pull through. The blessing in it is that we’ve got plenty of time to figure out how to deal with reintroducing Dethklok to the world. That’s where you come in.”

“Ah, Christ…”

Foster smirked as he gave Quinn an unneeded hand up into the helicopter’s cabin. “Oh, hush. There are better gods to call on.”

*****.

The lunch had gone over without much fuss. The band was too exhausted and had been dealt too much already to be shocked by Quinn. In fact, they took to him quite well, all things considered, after they had gotten over giving them both shit for being married.

“Marriage isch gay! ...wait…hold on…”

They had dropped the subject when Offdensen assured them there had been nothing akin to a wedding. They had signed a document, that was all. Well, that wasn’t all, but they didn’t need to know the details. “Look, I’m only letting you boys know so you understand that I trust him when I tell you that… I want Quinn to replace me as manager.”

“ _What?!_ ” Quinn’s fork clattered to his plate and then to the floor. “You couldn’t warn me?”

Foster only grinned at him, leaning back and watching the band members seem to accept the decision easily. “That’s how I got hired, what makes you so special?”

_”Well I was hoping the blowjobs.”_

Nathan coughed loudly into his hand. _”Uh, three of us understand French.”_

“Fuck.”

After taking the boys back to the hospital to sit with Toki, Foster and Quinn returned to Mordhaus, Quinn nervously picking at a hangnail through the flight. Foster took his hand, making him stop. “You’ll do fine. I’m not going to throw you to the wolves, I’ll teach you everything you need to know. I’ve already laid all the groundwork. Other than dealing with the boys, this job runs like, ah, excuse the pun, but… well, Klokwork.”

“I told you I trust you. I don’t know why you trust _me_ , I don’t know anything about managing a band.”

“You don’t have to. You’re an intelligence agent, a con artist. You’re _over_ -qualified, if anything.” He dropped the subject, ensuring Quinn that there was plenty of time to talk about it later, that the focus now should be keeping tabs on the Tribunal and Toki’s recovery. When they arrived back at Mordhaus, Foster moved all of his things from the office into the apartment, turning the coffee table into a makeshift desk, needing to get out of a such a work-oriented environment. This went well beyond the job.

Quinn settled in next to him, picking up the medallion Murderface had grabbed before leaving the scene of the madness. Ishnifus’ blood was still caked on the gold chain. He took a bandana from his pocket and gently buffed it away, then began polishing the medallion, itself. When he rubbed over the azure enamel, a mechanical _click_ issue from it, and the spokes of the design began to open, fanning out into a flat disc. Foster gently took the medallion from him, clicking another piece into place to close it again. “You’re not a Brother, yet. Once Father Friedman is appointed as High Holy Priest, you’ll know everything. Be patient.”

He set the medallion back on the table and pulled the laptop onto his thighs, going over his draft of the plan with Quinn. “I’ll maintain my position as CFO, only on paper -- our accounting department is proof of miracles, I’ll only need to oversee any major decisions and tax season -- and continue as Commander. You’ll be the new PR face of Dethklok. We’ll need to keep the public distracted while Toki is healing and while we figure out how to approach the Tribunal and Salacia from here. I… I won’t force you into anything, but I trust you, and I know you’ve got the talent for it. Think of it as a deep-cover assignment if you have to. I’m debating this point still, but I think it’s time we show our hand a little with the Klokateers. I’d like it to be public that you’ve been enlisted. The public needs to see a younger face, they flock to new and shiny, and it doesn’t hurt that you’re gorgeous, and, unlike me, an actual metalhead.”

Quinn leaned in, resting his chin on Foster’s shoulder, reading over the list. “Well, not before you were hired, at least.”

“Yeah, yeah… all the same, you’re what Dethklok needs now, as an image. As I said, I’ve already laid all the groundwork for you, we’ve got everyone in the business eating out of our hands, and Damien taking over Crystal Mountain Records needs something out of left field to keep him on his toes. He’ll try to hurt us again, we’ve got to be proactive. In a few weeks, I’ll make the rounds with our distributors and promoters, introduce you to everyone, and when Toki is well enough to make some sort of statement for the press, we’ll go public with the staffing change.”

He put the laptop back on the table and picked up a dossier file and his journal -- an older one -- before sitting back, tugging Quinn against him. “For now, I need you to start getting a team together for some reconnaissance. Crozier is hiding Falconback right under the noses of this new defense bill. We’ve got plenty of Gears in uniform, and ex-pats among the Klokateers, I need eyes and ears as close to Crozier as I can. We’ve beat around the bush long enough, and I trust your judgment on who we can trust and who is best suited.”

“I’ve already got a few people that come to mind. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good.” He handed the dossier to Quinn, who moved to sit with his back against the arm of the sofa, legs stretched out across Foster’s lap. Foster opened the journal and clicked his pen in a nervous gesture as they both read through their respective materials. After several minutes of clicking, Quinn poked him in the side with a toe.

“Hey… stop that. What are you doing, anyway?”

Foster put the pen down, shaking his head. “Ah, attempting to date all my old entries. I never did until the past year, and I’m regretting it. I’m trying to put together a comprehensive timeline for… well, I _was_ trying to put it together for Ishnifus. Any clue can help. I just found the entry after I was first hired on with Dethklok, but it’s hard to place the date, exactly. I mention my birthday a few entries later, but in passing, like it wasn’t the actual day but close. And an entry or two before, I mentioned seeing the full moon.”

Quinn put up a finger and pulled out his phone, already ready to look up the information. “What year?”

Foster had to think for just a moment. “1999.”

Quinn nodded. “OK, so, November full moon, ‘99…” He looked up, wearing an apologetic frown. “Shit, it’s been so crazy, I didn’t even realize what month it is. Your birthday’s next week.”

“Shhh, you know I don’t care.”

“Well, I always like to do something for you…” He looked down as the page loaded. “Here we go, you said an entry or two before was the full moon, a few back is your birthday.... and the show was on a Friday? Well, Friday the 12th is just four days after the full moon. Sounds about right. So… tomorrow, then.”

Foster had that far-off look that Quinn knew meant he had just thought of something that had him worried. “It was after midnight… when I agreed to work for them, I know it was after midnight. That makes it the 13th, then. This Friday.” He clicked the pen again without thinking. Quinn twitched. “Thirteen years ago…” The look faded and he reached down to squeezed Quinn’s leg, rubbing absently. “What’s thirteen in the Tarot? It’s Death, right?”

Quinn closed the dossier, laying it in his lap. He didn’t like the direction this was taking. “Yes. In Tarot, the Death card signifies Change. Well, usually. It’s a metaphor, like… to become something new, the old self dies.”

“And the imagery, it’s… Death, a Reaper, and a Priest, correct?” For a time, after he was on his own and living mostly on the streets, Quinn had taken advantage of a skill passed down from his mother and made enough cash for food -- and apparently heroin -- by reading fortunes for tourists across Europe.

“Love-of-mine, I don’t like where you’re going with this… but yes, that’s right.”

Foster mustered a smile to try and dispel Quinn’s worry, rubbing his leg again. “It’s nothing, it’s just… Ishnifus used to say, the only things in life that are certain are Death and Change. I told him the saying is ‘Death and _Taxes_ ’, and, well, he called me out on how much I’ve been cheating the IRS for the last thirty years, so…” He laughed softly, looking back at the medallion on the table.

Quinn swung his legs out of Foster’s lap and leaned in to kiss his jaw, taking the journal away and setting it aside. “You’ve worked enough today. Let me run you a bath, fix you a drink… fuck it, I’ll roll you a joint.” He kissed up to Foster’s ear and tugged him up to stand, pointing him in the direction of the bathroom. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you tie me up tonight?”

Foster laughed, letting Quinn force him to relax, grabbing him roughly by the hips and pulling him into a slow kiss. “And what if I’m bad?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…” Quinn pulled away and poured some epsom salts and scented oils into the bath, leaving Foster to sink into the steaming tub while he went off to the kitchen and pulled down their cigar box of paraphernalia, deciding to pack a bowl, instead. Fuck it, they’d both get stoned. No use wasting a perfectly good opportunity. He set the glass pipe on a small tray with a lighter, added two gin-and-tonics, some white chocolate truffles from the fridge, and a bottle of lube, just in case they didn’t make it from the bathroom back to the bed. He carried the tray through the bedroom, adding a stick of incense on a small wooden burner, lighting it before continuing with the tray into the bathroom, pulling the steel legs out from the it to set it across the rim of the large claw-footed tub, stripping slower than necessary, chuckling softly as Foster’s wet fingers trailed down his leg. He moved to step into the tub to sit facing Foster, but the other grabbed his wrist, urging him to sit laying back against his chest.

Quinn obliged, shivering as he sank down into the water, feeling Foster’s tongue swipe from the back of his knee all the way up the left side of his body, ending in a nibbling kiss at his shoulder. He leaned back, pulling the tray close and handing the bowl and lighter to Foster. They passed it a few times in silence before Foster set it down and picked up a drink, instead, pressing the cool glass to his brow, one hand rubbing in circles across Quinn’s chest. It was hard for him to put down his guard, to know when to take a break, and without Quinn, he knew he would have run himself ragged years ago. He was glad to have someone there to make him realize when he needed to take a moment to himself.

They talked about inconsequential things between white-chocolate-kisses and sips of gin. Foster asked about nicknames among the Penta Squad and Quinn obliged with some of his favorites. JoJo was a coffee fiend from Tuscon, Capo played a mean slide guitar, Aurora was infamous for sleeping through morning alarms and was thus almost always on third shift duties, and Clinton had a fat wife named Monica. As they finished off the bowl, Quinn prodded Foster for some more wild stories from Amsterdam. He wasn’t surprised anymore, but he still loved to think of Foster as a rebellious teenager living by himself in the Netherlands, a product of the late seventies and in the right place and time to see some of the greatest bands in history, without realizing until years later that that was who they were. He’d been blown in the bathroom at a Led Zepplin show in Copenhagen, gotten fucked by a club bouncer ‘on his smoke break’ during a Black Sabbath after-party in Paris, and had apparently shared a cab with Iggy Pop during finals week back in Amsterdam, not realizing at all who he’d been in the car with until the other man had reached his stop, swarmed with paparazzi shouting his name. “I had money and I’d always had money, I didn’t realize I was rubbing shoulders with these people. I was a business major that played viola on the streets for fun, not for change, I just wanted to play to an audience but I had no interest doing it professionally or for any sort of fame. I ended up making musician friends, just people I got stoned with and let sneak me into bars... you have to remember, I was in college, but I was still only sixteen, seventeen at the time. I was never close with anyone really famous, but we ran in the same circles as the big names, not like I knew the difference.”

Quinn shook his head, stoned and daydreaming what his lover must have been like back then, especially the sexual exploits. He didn’t realize how hard he was until Foster began to stroke him, kissing at his throat. “What about you?”

“I don’t want to talk about that… me at seventeen was a junkie pick-pocket running scams on old ladies to buy smack. Your stories are much better.” Foster didn’t need much bait to get off the subject, Quinn pushing the tray away to the far end of the tub and tossing one leg out over the rim, dripping water onto the floor. Lubed fingers worked their way inside, the other hand still stroking him with a pace learned through practice. Quinn let himself be played with, knowing he was Foster’s favorite toy, with a hundred fun phrases -- and moans -- if he pressed all the right buttons, and it hadn’t taken him very long to learn every single one with skill. He was nearly at the edge when Foster shuffled them around, turning Quinn to face him now and lifting himself up to sit on the edge of the tub.

The younger man needed no prompting, crawling forward, water sloshing over the edge onto the floor, and wrapped his arms around Foster’s waist, sucking him off, raking his nails over slim hips as he felt him go from aroused to rock-hard against his tongue, stretching his mouth around the girth that he knew would feel like bliss inside him. Stoned sex was always an awkward, short-attention-span jump from one position to the next, but it was still Quinn’s favorite, the psychedelic enhancing the physical sensation, and adding a warm intensity to the intimacy. When Foster couldn’t stand it anymore, they shuffled around again, sloshing more water, and Quinn found himself holding his weight up on both arms braced against the tub’s sides, Foster under him with his legs stretched out, Quinn’s on either side of Foster, ready to wrap around him, once Foster was inside and… he lowered himself down, wrapping his legs around Foster’s waist and rocking his hips back, a wave of pleasure working its way up his spine and out of his mouth in a long moan, trailing off in a flurry of soft curses. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good…”

The slow pace and deep thrusts afforded from the position melted away the playful nature and, as things usually happened between them, they found themselves making love without meaning to, clutching tightly as if afraid to let go, kissing with more abandon than finesse. In the rare honest moments, the raw things they didn’t quite have the vocabulary to express, they knew to savor these moments when they came. Even though the space in his chest that Foster always resided in pounded so hard it hurt, Quinn let it drag on as long as he could manage, his fingers and toes pruned, his hips aching from the awkwardness of the tub, but when he looked at Foster, it was easy to feel like there was no rest-of-the-world anymore, nothing to worry about, just this moment to enjoy and experience and share. He knew Foster was at his end when the biting started, not even startled when he saw his own blood creeping up the cracks between the other’s teeth, leaning in to kiss him, all the same. When he pulled away, he leaned back and shifted himself as best he could, getting all the leverage he could manage and picking up the pace, riding Foster roughly. A hand wrapped around him and stroked him in time and the release was so hard, he was left in a foggy no-time space for a brief moment, coming back to real life, panting and sweating, oily and damp, but sated and with a voice in his head, a voice he’d become familiar with now, reminding him, _you love this man, you love this man more than life._

And then Foster was in his ear, whispering to him in seven different languages that he loved him. They understood by now that it wasn’t the cannabis talking, only translating. It was easier to let go of the uncertainty of romance when you had good weed and a better lover. Sliding apart, they climbed out of the tub and Quinn tossed down a few towels over the puddles to clean up later, drying off and padding naked into the bedroom to grab their usual post-coital cigarette.

Foster drained the tub and pulled on a pair of jogging pants, carrying the tray into the kitchen. Quinn was wearing only a pair of loose boxers, standing at the coffee table with his phone, the pack of cigarettes and ashtray set beside the dossier and journal. He was frowning at the small screen, scrolling through what appeared to be an email as Foster watched him from the sink. “Shit…”

Foster put down the tumblers he had started washing, walking back to the living room. “What’s wrong?”

“I guess you’ve got the Oculus off?” Quinn handed him the phone, opened to an email from the comm-console’s main address at the Church. It was from Sister Harrenzor.

_Quinn_

_Please have Brother Foster contact us as soon as possible. Father Friedman suffered a stroke this morning, he has just passed. I’m sorry to give you such bad news. I hope Master Wartooth is healing well. This time of grief is difficult for all of us._

“Death and Change, huh?” Quinn sank down into the cushions, lighting a cigarette and shaking his head.

“Yeah, Death and Change…” Foster settled in next to him and switched the Oculus back on, smoking silently as he waited for the system to boot, instantly going into the missed messages and emails. He read the last one first. Read it again.

Quinn shifted anxiously. “Well?”

Foster read the last line over and over, setting his cigarette in the ashtray to die a lonely death. “It’s me.” Quinn only blinked, not following.

“The next High Holy Priest. They want to ordain _me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Everything you need to know about the man behind the world's most extreme metal artists, up to the point in time we already know about. It took a lot to trim it all down and pull everything together at the end, but let's meet back here in a few weeks for the next part of this series, and by then, perhaps we'll finally know if _**The Army of the Doomstar**_ is a fixed point in our future.
> 
> Part 3 of The Light Bearer series will be called _Sanguinem Oceanus_.
> 
> Say it with me now, all together...
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **BLOOOOOOOOD OCEAN**  
>   
> 
> (Let's hope I'm not setting myself up for a shit-sandwich, OOP!)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the "plausible" version of this offshoot arc; there are smutty and fluffy asides that I've written and that are part of the story, but they will be left separate as non-essential tidbits in the series. I'll eventually post them for anyone interested. Filler, I guess you could say, but I'm a terrible editor and it's hard to throw some things out. 
> 
> [[Approaching TL;DR, you're good to stop here, friends:]] I've had a depressing and difficult year, and after 8 days in the hospital after a really, really bad episode, I started smoking a lot of weed (85% medicinally/spiritually, 15% to get turnt). I'm working ("working") from home while I'm recovering, and I live alone now, so I spend a lot of time with fictional characters? Revisited Metalocalypse after a few years and the fantasy/epic/prophecy story line just got me. (I had actually only seen up to the first episode of season 3 before Hulu started streaming it, so it blew my mind to get to watch the bigger story unfold. Again, lots of weed.) If you like it, _please_ let me know, and if I slack off for more than a month, bug the ever-loving fuck out of me. I get things done faster with encouragement, and I have the skeleton of the plot finished. (It's in the bag, baby!) All I need is to flesh it out and get it all down. Probably going to be another 75,000-words-in-two-months kind of things, WOOPS! For some reason, I feel like I really want to get it finished before _The Army of the Doomstar_ is finally granted permission into the world (or whatever the fuck mainstream media thinks it does), and then sit back and enjoy the official ending. I'm probably just ambitious, but I really hope this Hulu/Netflix/streaming revival thing works out for Brendon Small, so I'm going to strive to finish this therapy-session of an alternate story line by the end of the year.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading, dildos.  
> /River/


End file.
